Ex Files
by sevenpercent
Summary: a collection of short ficlits that cover aspects of Sherlock's world. Not in chronological order, nor linked, but together adding up. Mostly John's POV. EXPIATE now up.
1. Chapter 1 Extraordinary

**Ex Files: a collection of short ficlits that cover aspects of Sherlock's world. Not in chronological order, nor linked, but together adding up. Varying points of view, but mostly John's.**

**Extraordinary**

ex·traor·di·nar·y/ikˈstrôrdnˌerē/

Adjective:

1. Very unusual or remarkable.

2. Unusually great.

Even before John moved into Baker Street, he knew his flatmate was odd. If the rapid fire deductions about his own past in the lab at Bart's weren't enough, Mike's comment, "Yeah, he's always like that," confirmed it. After the events of the 48 hours that followed, John was sure that his flatmate was also **extraordinary**. Who else could have deduced the existence of a pink suitcase, and figured out where it was hidden, as well as the password of a murdered woman, and flushed out a full blown serial killer unless they were rather unusual?

He had been surprised by not just the willing ness of the police to work with the consulting detective, but also their rather unusual relationship. Clearly, both Sergeant Donovan and the forensic specialist Anderson loathed him- probably because they felt threatened. But, John was struck by the Detective Inspector's comment, thrown over his shoulder as he went down the stairs at Baker Street, "Sherlock Holmes is a great man. One day he may even be a good one."

All his life, John had cultivated an air of being ordinary. To succeed in his life, it had been important to judge himself in relation to others- family, school, university, as a medical student, a doctor, an army captain. He wore his clothes to reassure people that he was what he appeared to be: good- the lab coat, the military uniform, the jumpers were all part of building respect with others. He defined himself in the eyes of others as dependable, loyal, trustworthy, honest and capable. If others saw him that way, it confirmed his normality.

Yet, his new flatmate saw him differently. Right from the beginning. A person with a psychosomatic limp that could be cured simply, when every other physical therapist had failed. Someone who loved the battlefield for the adrenaline kick (_Seen enough trouble?...like to see some more_?) Sherlock had known John's extraordinariness almost from the moment he met him. And he had drawn out those hidden depths – John's willingness to push boundaries (_could be dangerous_), his skills with a weapon (_where's the gun?_). What John liked the most about his **extraordinary** flatmate was how he recognised John was **extraordinary**, too.


	2. Chapter 2: Explain

**ex·plain****/ikˈsplān/**

Verb:

1. Make (an idea, situation, or problem) clear to someone by describing it in more detail or revealing relevant facts or ideas.

2. Account for (an action or event) by giving a reason as excuse or justification.

* * *

The personal blog of John H. Watson was originally set up at the request of his therapist. It was a chore, a pain, an annoyance for him, because it constantly reminded him that "nothing ever happens to me." Until he met Sherlock, that is.

After that, he had an endless supply of things to write about. And he found that he enjoyed it. Above all else, it gave him a chance to slow down and think through the stuff that happened on their cases at such blinding speed that half the time he was left scratching his head wondering how the pieces fit together. One thing he had discovered was that once a case was over, Sherlock lost all interest in it. Apart from being an absolute magpie, and never throwing away any piece of paper or scrap of evidence about past cases, Sherlock's attention would instantly move onto the next case.

The whirlwind that was his flatmate found explaining his deductions to be the most tedious part of the case. The work was the solution, the explaining the nuisance. He frequently ridiculed those who could not understand the significance of his pronouncements (_What's it like in your tiny minds?_) or his frustrations at being forced to explain things that to him were blatantly obvious _(Oh, do keep up, John_).

John, on the other hand, liked to re-run scenes, chew things over, reflect on them, make sense of them. His blog was therapeutic in that way. Only later, when he began to realise that he had a following, that people commented on his site, and that cases were coming to Sherlock as a result of the blog- well, then he had even more incentive to capture what was happening, to **explain** it in terms that he as well as others could understand.

Initially, Sherlock was scathing about John's blog. "Did you like it?" John had asked eagerly. "Ummm, no," was his flatmate's brutally honest reply. It wasn't factual or scientific; it offended the detective's sense of precision. It confused him; he once accused John of pandering to the masses; "it's… entertainment", he sniffed, clearly annoyed that John's blog attracted far more views than his own site.

Over the months, John realised that he wasn't just explaining, he was translating the cases from _Sherlockian_- a strange shorthand which most ordinary mortals could not speak, let alone understand- into normal language that people could get.

What pleased John the most about his ability to **explain** Sherlock's cases was the fact that the detective was beginning to see the value of the explanation (_I'd be lost without my blogger_). And that explained more than anything else why John liked doing it.


	3. Chapter 3: Exhaust

**ex·haust****/igˈzôst/**

Verb: Drain (someone) of their physical or mental resources; tire out.

Noun: Waste gases or air expelled from an engine, turbine, or other machine in the course of its operation.

* * *

John had been sharing 221b with Sherlock for nearly six weeks when he began to suspect that his flatmate not only suffered from insomnia, but that he had a real phobia about sleep. No matter how many times he stayed up late, watching some old film on the box, Sherlock never went to sleep before him. The detective was always up before him, usually dressed and bouncing with energy (_Another case, John, no time to waste with trivia_) or, on the days when cases did not appear, Sherlock would still be engrossed in an experiment, playing the violin or stretched out on the sofa reading some obscure journal about inorganic chemistry of insecticides (_poisons that kill bugs can kill people, John; you'd be surprised how many murder weapons can be found in a garden shed_)

In fact, in the six weeks he'd been at the flat, John had never once seen Sherlock asleep. The detective would often be lying in his characteristic pose- eyes closed, fingers under his chin, steepled as if in prayer- but no sooner would John peer over to see if this had turned into a clandestine nap than the baritone voice would scathingly comment, "please stop thinking too loudly, John; the sound of your rusty gears turning is enough to disturb my train of thought."

"Why don't you like sleeping, Sherlock?

"Tedious. A total waste of time. My brain just freewheels when I am sleeping, and that is pointless."

"Yeah, but that's kind of _my_ point. Everything needs a bit of down time or it wears out. Even _transport_ has to re-charge the batteries occasionally and refuel. Not eating and not sleeping properly is more than a bit not good, you know."

"I manage."

Then there was the time when John had come in hungry and fixed himself a plate of beans on toast, working around Sherlock's experiment that was taking up every square inch of working surface in the kitchen. He'd offered some beans to Sherlock who had snorted and said "No, dried legumes are not something I enjoy."

A couple of hours later, John was reading quietly when a fart slipped out. Sherlock just commented, "and that's the reason why." John started giggling. "Well, you're the chemist, so you should know why it happens."

"Yes, John. Raffinose, a complex sugar. When combined with soluble fibre and digestive tract enzymes, it causes colonic fermentation resulting in flatus. Both signs of digestion that take blood and energy away from the brain. Bad for the brainwork, to say nothing of the atmosphere. The reason why it smells is due to volatile amines and short chain fatty acids. Bovine flatulence is a principal cause of rising CO2 emissions, but theirs is a chemical reaction that produces more methane. Humans only produce methane when there is archaea bacteria present in the gut."

"Well, I can't say that I knew much of that before. You may not know about the solar system, but you are just a mine of knowledge about obscure trivia, aren't you?"

Stung, Sherlock looked up from his experiment with a frown. "Not so trivial, John. You can use raffinose decay periods to track time of death in human bodies."

"Given you know so much about how the human body works, you should take better care of your own."

"Who says I don't?"

Yes, well, actually that was the problem. Sherlock had managed to cope with a diet and a sleep regime that John was certain would half kill a normal person. Adrenaline has its advantages in dealing with both starvation and sleep deprivation, but sooner or later, the doctor was sure biochemistry would win.

So, it was not actually a surprise when John came home one evening after a pub night out with Mike Stamford to find a silent and dark flat. Sherlock's coat and scarf will still on the coat hook, so he wasn't out. The doctor chuckled to himself; at last, Sherlock must have headed for his bedroom to sleep.

John flipped on the lights in the kitchen and foraged for a cup of tea before bed (always balance alcohol intake with water- basic biochemistry learned in med school). When the tea was brewed, he moved into the darkened sitting room and headed for his chair. Just as he sank down into it with a contented sigh, he glanced across the room. A bundle of what..blankets?...on the floor caught his eye, which then slowly took shape as the crumpled limbs of a detective.

John was on his feet in a moment and then kneeling beside his comatose flatmate. A quick set of fingertips on a pulse point reassured him that Sherlock was alive; bending down closer, he could hear a regular pattern of deep respiration. He sat back on his heels in amazement. Sherlock must have literally fallen asleep, stopped in mid-stride and collapsed onto the floor.

"Sherlock!" John tried to rouse the sleeping man, without success. He was sleeping the way children do- with that total abandon, oblivious to any noise, touch or stimulation. He had never seen an unsedated adult do that kind of deep sleep. For a moment, he had a wicked thought of firing off his gun to see if that would wake the detective. No, that would be too cruel. Grabbing the blanket from the back of his chair, he pulled the younger man's arms and legs out into a more comfortable position. Stuffing a cushion under Sherlock's head as a makeshift pillow, he smirked. _Biochemistry 1, Sherlock 0. _


	4. Chapter 4: Extenuate

**ex·ten·u·ate****/ikˈstenyo͞oˌāt/**

Verb:

Make (guilt or an offense) seem less serious or more forgivable.

Make (someone) thin.

* * *

I've never been one for fancy food- a meat and potatoes kind of guy. Or, in my later incarnations, a ready meal, take-away kind of eater. When I was in university, medical school, and then the army, food was prepared for me in cafeterias, canteens, and even army rations handed around if we were on patrol. All I had to do was show up and something nutritious was put in front of me to eat. I've never claimed to be a cook. Yet, as a doctor, I know the importance of a balanced diet and reasonable nutrition. So I do try to eat fruit, fibre, slow release sugars, and watch the amount of both calories and saturated fats I consume.

"Sherlock, when are you planning on eating something today?"

"I don't _plan_ to eat; too tedious."

Along with a lack of sleep, my flatmate's eating habits annoyed me. I tried lecturing him, even tried to interest him in a case of anorexia that I had been treating at the surgery. I thought if I intrigued him about it as if it were a detection case, I might be able to get some insight into why he had such a dysfunctional approach to eating, or at least discover if there were any extenuating circumstances that explained his antipathy.

"I am not some angst-ridden teenage girl, John, so you can stop your feeble attempts. Clearly, you were a better trauma surgeon than you are a psychiatrist."

It was frustrating. I hated being a nag, so I tried various tactics. No one can resist the smell of cooking bacon, can they? Well, it appears that one six foot and one inch tall detective can. I popped four rashers of streaky bacon into the frying pan, and dropped four slices of white bread into the toaster.

I put the finished sandwich on the coffee table beside where he lay stretched out on the sofa, and tucked into my own with gusto. I casually asked him how much he weighed.

"My body mass index is 18.6, as that is what you are really trying to deduce. Within an acceptable range, and I am likely to live a longer life span than most, that is, if some villain doesn't get me before illness or old age. Do not interfere, John. I eat enough, and have a reasonably balanced diet, but I don't eat as a matter of routine or habit. Western society is fixated on over-consumption. I prefer to manage my body's appetites rather than slavishly indulge them."

I looked down at the half eaten bacon sandwich on my plate. It was delicious, but I suddenly had a guilty thought. Did I really _need_ this?

"What is it about eating that makes you dislike it so, Sherlock? I mean, it's one of life's great pleasures."

"I have hypersensitive senses. What you call 'taste' is an assault on my tongue. That sandwich in front of you, for example, to me it would be a mass of conflicting sensations- the refined wheat carbohydrates and the salt in the bread, mixed up with the saturated fats in the butter, and the grease, not to mention the bacon itself."

He sat up, looking suspiciously at the sandwich in front of him on the coffee table. "The reason why you like cooked bacon is a basic chemical process, called the Malliard reaction, named after the French scientist who in 1912 figured out how amino acids in the lean pork and reducing sugars in the fat react due to heat to produce new compounds that the normal tongue interprets as dozens of different flavours. There are other chemical reactions, involving the tetrapyrrole rings of the muscle protein myoglobin."

John looked down at his sandwich again, seeing it in a new light. "So, for you eating isn't about enjoying food; it's another chemistry experiment?"

Sherlock sniffed. "It's not much of an experiment, John, given that everything is already known about the process. That's what makes eating so tedious. Every time I put something into my mouth, the chemical analysis starts in my head. I can't turn it off, it's just a part of being hypersensitive. It makes eating such a bore. Been there, done that, let's move on to something more interesting."

"Do you want to eat that sandwich then?"

"Now that you've gone to the trouble, I might as well, but only if it will stop you from being a nuisance about my eating habits. Now _that_ is an experiment worth conducting."


	5. Chapter 5 Extreme

**Author's note: In response to a prompt from ravenoak21, with thanks.**

* * *

**extreme** (ex|treme):** /ɪkˈstriːm, ɛk-/**

_adjective _

reaching a high or the highest degree; very great; not usual; exceptional; very severe or serious

denoting or relating to an activity performed in a hazardous environment and involving great risk

* * *

It took me only a night to realise that Sherlock is a man of extremes. From the first time I crossed the threshold of 221b, I have been drawn into what can only be described as a whirlwind. From the moment he danced around in circles about a serial suicide murderer, to the panic when I looked through the window to see him about to take that damn pill, he has kept me on the edge of disbelief. He doesn't do things by halves. (_If it's worth doing, John, it's worth doing_). So, whether it is lying on the sofa doing nothing for eight hours at a stretch (_It's not "nothing " John; I am THINKING, which is something that not enough people do_) or leaping over the rooftops of London in pursuit of a suspect, when he decides to do something, the consulting detective throws himself into it completely, regardless of the risks.

If he chooses to take on a case, he devotes himself to it, not stopping to eat or sleep until it is over. And by "over", I mean solved. He doesn't give up until it is solved. He takes it personally if for any reason a solution can't be found (mentioning the Speckled Blonde case still sends him into a sulk that lasts for days). That's why he is picky about the cases he takes on. (_I won't leave the flat for anything less than a six, John) _ I didn't get it at first, but when I realised just what taking a case on means to him, then I began to realise that he has to ration his workload or he'd simply self- combust.

The frenzy of a case is exhausting to someone like me, who chooses to trail behind, caught up in the wake of Sherlock's frenetic activity. He takes extreme measures- willing to test out his theories with no regard to his own safety (_the only way to prove the cabbie was the murderer was to get him to try it on me)_.When he is bent over his chemistry kit at 221b, I've had to gently remind him that he shares a flat with me, and our landlady does object when our kitchen bears the scars of numerous explosions, acid leaks and chemical burns. When he was willing to risk experimenting with bottulinum spores in the shoe laces of Carl Powers' trainers, he didn't think twice about the risk he might be taking of infecting himself, me or Mrs Hudson.

I didn't understand why some cases appealed to him and others didn't until about the third time he solved one of New Scotland Yard's cases within five minutes of walking onto the crime scene, only to complain loudly to Lestrade about wasting his time and then stalking off muttering "boring" under his breath.

When the cases are complicated, extraordinary and perplexing, when no one has the slightest idea what is going on, or what to do next in a case, that's when Sherlock loves it. His glee is infectious The more extreme the case, the more bloody, the better in his eyes (_It's Christmas!)_. Some of the NSYers accuse him of being a cold-blooded monster, getting off on gruesome cases, but that does Sherlock a great disservice. It's just that on a really difficult case, he is able to let rip, to apply his full capacity, unhindered, unleashed. Like a maestro about to produce a masterpiece, he just can't help but get excited by the prospect (_The Game is on!)_

It's amazing to watch, and it must be extremely satisfying to be able to find a case that pushes him to the extreme limits of what he is able to do. For once, those hypersensitive senses can be opened up full throttle: his acuity of sight, sound, smell, touch and taste are pushed to their very limits to observe what others cannot perceive, because we filter so much of what we experience out of our brains. Instead of being a crippling burden, that hypersensitivity is suddenly a gift; all that deductive power is transformed into a power of good, instead of a social handicap. He swirls around a crime scene like someone possessed and in a way he is- taken over completely by his abilities to know things that normal people just can't understand (_You see, John but you do not observe_). Well, I have observed this much. We are all better off for having someone like Sherlock able to use his unique talents so extremely effectively.


	6. Chapter 6: Exasperate

**Exasperate (****ɪgˈzasp(ə)reɪt****)**

_**Verb**_** 1. ****To make very angry or impatient**

** 2. To annoy greatly, infuriate**

* * *

"Anything in? I'm starving."

No reply. John knew that his flatmate was stretched out on the sofa, sulking. He started to head for the fridge, but hesitated. The memory of what happened last week was still very fresh in his mind- the not so fresh severed head that had been sitting on the shelf staring out at him when he opened the door.

When John had complained, his flatmate had calmly replied "where else was I to put it? Don't mind do you?"

What was he supposed to say? That it wasn't "normal"? Well, Sherlock would just look at him puzzled, that little crease between his eyebrows showing just what he thought of that comment. On what planet did John live, if he thought Sherlock cared about being normal? He had tried the "it's unhygienic, Sherlock" argument when he had found yet another a beaker full of eyeballs in the microwave. And which were still there four days later when he tried to re-heat a lasagne ready meal.

But Sherlock was a chemist, and knew all about bacterial growth rates; in fact, the eyeballs experiment was just that- to see how long it would take for an intact eyeball to start rotting at different temperatures. (_It's crucial to disprove a murderer's alibi, John_). And his flatmate was forever pointing out that there was no difference between keeping a piece of human pancreas in the fridge from keeping a slice of calves liver for John's dinner in the fridge. (_Both are offal, John_.) Yes, both awful; John didn't like liver, of any kind.

So, despite the shock of regularly seeing human body parts in various states of decay in the refrigerator, John had come to understand that this was just one of the idiosyncrasies of living with Sherlock. He tried to get Sherlock to obey some basic rules- first, label everything clearly. He didn't want to tuck into a ham sandwich one day only to discover later that it had been a slice of a cadaver's preserved thigh muscle. Second- try not to cross-contaminate perfectly good food because you want to use it for an experiment with something dragged home from Bart's mortuary. That was after he found a rotting thumb stuck into his jar of strawberry jam. (_But, John- the jam is a perfect substitute for the sort of pectin and agar gel used in a petrie dish_).

No, what really exasperated John was the fact that Sherlock didn't understand that the doctor wasn't a mind reader, so wouldn't know that the ham he had just used for his toasted sandwich was the very thing that Sherlock was going to use to test his latest acid solution. And when the detective complained, that John was going to have to go to Tesco to replace it, again. Now that really _was_ **exasperating**.


	7. Chapter 7: Experiment

**ex·per·i·ment****/ikˈsperəmənt/**

Noun: A scientific procedure undertaken to make a discovery, test a hypothesis, or demonstrate a known fact.

Verb: Perform a scientific procedure, esp. in a laboratory, to determine something.

Synonyms: _noun_. trial - test - try - attempt - essay - assay - tentative

* * *

Within a few days of arriving at 221b, John knew that he was sharing a flat with someone who could be defined as a "mad scientist". His early suspicions after the first meeting in the Bart's lab were quickly confirmed when the kitchen table suddenly sprouted a whole labyrinth of tubing, flasks, and the highest spec microscope he'd ever seen outside of a hospital lab. Sherlock had not mentioned this when covering his list of foibles, along with playing the violin and not talking for days on end (_flatmates should know the worst about each other_), so presumably he didn't see it as an issue. At first, John was just a bit annoyed about the lack of clear counter space in the kitchen, which made tea making something of a juggling act.

"Sherlock, I have managed to get over the fact that you keep human body parts around (_These are human eyeballs, Sherlock, in the microwave_.) But, it would be helpful if you could just leave enough space free for me to put a cup down at the same time as the kettle is on."

"Hmmph. If you want to make yourself useful, hand me the plastic container from the fridge that has the left ears."

John obliged, but before he had even turned around toward the kitchen table, the dry comment came "Not the box of _right_ ears; the left ears are under the coleslaw."

The doctor sighed. "No, I'm late for work, so I am not going to ask you the obvious questions of a) what's the difference between right and left ears, or b) what on earth are you doing with them?"

Sherlock looked up at John, perplexed. "If you say you aren't going to ask me those questions, but then you do, does that mean you do or you don't want to hear the answers?"

"Text me- I'm already late for my last appointment with that bloody therapist."

Sherlock sniffed. "You should have fired her last week; what good did she ever do for your psychosomatic limp or PTSD?" But, the detective realised he was talking to an empty flat, as he heard the front door downstairs bang shut behind the doctor.

**9.38am Did you know that none of the 6.7 billion humans on earth have the same shaped ear? SH**

**9.40am But, are the right and left ones different? JW**

**9.41am Shape finding algorithms are being written to determine this now. Question is whether the right ear programme is better at 99.6% accuracy or the left one. SH**

**9.42am Why does it matter? Aren't DNA and fingerprints good enough? JW**

**9.43am CCTV is a larger database than either DNA or fingerprint, so identifying bodies will be much easier. SH**

**9.45am Great, so Mycroft will be able to figure out it's us on the CCTV just by catching a glimpse of our ears? JW**

**9.47am John, why do you think I wear my hair this long? Have you ever **_**seen**_** my ears? SH**

John smirked. Maybe Sherlock's experiment served a useful purpose after all.


	8. Chapter 8: Excise

**excise**ɪkˈsɪʒ(ə)

_**verb **_**cut out surgically: **_**the precision with which surgeons can excise brain tumours or festering wounds**_

* * *

"What's wrong with you, freak? Can't you see that the victim's mother is in a terrible state? How dare you be so cold; you're like a bloody machine!" Sally was so angry that for a moment I thought she was going to actually hit Sherlock.

The crime scene was like something out of a Hollywood film set- blood and gore so over the top that it had to be a fake. The horror was that it was real, and what was even worse, the victim was a teenager whose body had been found by her mother.

After I'd been sharing a flat with Sherlock for some months, I had become used to people assuming that Sherlock "didn't do" feelings. Anderson and Donovan could not resist making some snide comment at almost every crime scene where our paths crossed; yet Sherlock never replied to the jibes directly. He would just turn his deductive skills onto them and ridicule their intelligence, some aspect of their character or their on-again, off-again relationship.

Sherlock cultivated this image, consciously and deliberately. _Emotion is the grease on the lens; the fly in the ointment_. He would never pass up an opportunity to distance himself from it. _Sentiment_, he would sniff.

At first, it was easy to think that he lacked empathy, the ability to understand and relate to other people's emotions. It's called alexythemia- something I studied in the psych rotation at medical school; it means an inability to understand, process or describe emotions.

In fact, it was once thought to be the defining symptom of autism. It's also a key determinant in a lot of diagnoses of personality disorders- particularly psychopaths. That's why Sally thinks Sherlock is a psychopath, and why it sounded plausible when Sherlock told Anderson that he was a high functioning sociopath.

It took me a while to realise that just because he doesn't choose to display emotions, or that he loudly dismisses their value to him, that didn't mean he doesn't feel things. He does, often and deeply. He just chooses not to display or discuss his emotions, his empathy. Over the months, I have come to know Sherlock well enough to be able to read his emotions even when he isn't signalling them in a way that most people would pick up: his distress when the old blind woman was killed for trying to describe Moriarty's voice, his pain when Sebastian Wilkes revelled in saying how university students hated him for being able to out who was sleeping with whom, his regret when his deductions embarrassed Molly at the Christmas party, his anger when Mrs Hudson was assaulted by the CIA moron, and a dozen other occasions when the mask would slip just a tiny fraction.

I once asked him why he told people he didn't feel emotions, and he looked at me with that little perplexed wrinkle between his eyebrows. "John, you're a doctor, you can figure this one out without any help from me."

That made me think. When a wound causes pain and is festering, a surgeon will excise it, that is, remove it. Far from not feeling, Sherlock's whole public persona was an attempt to excise his sensitivity. _Would caring help me to rescue them? If not, then I won't make that mistake._ When people accused him of being unfeeling, he is actually trying to avoid feeling so much that it incapacitates him.


	9. Chapter 9: Explosive

**Author's note: In honour of Bonfire Night night! The Gunpowder Plot's principal conspirator adopted the name of _Guido _Fawkes.**

* * *

**ex·plo·sive ****/ikˈsplōsiv/**

Adjective: Able or likely to shatter violently or burst apart, as when a bomb explodes.

Noun: A substance that can be made to explode, esp. any of those used in bombs or shells.

Synonyms: detonating

* * *

BANG!

Startled, John looked up from his chair, and turned around to eye Sherlock, who was bent over his lab equipment.

"What are you doing?" It was said in a stern voice that combined concern, curiosity and a little bit of criticism. It was the sort of tone that you use with an adolescent whose activity you don't quite trust.

"Nothing," came the answer, almost instantaneously.

"Didn't sound like nothing to me," muttered John, who caught the slight whiff of cordite in the air of the flat.

"Don't you have somewhere to go? Maybe Tesco to get some more milK?"

"Are you trying to get rid of me so you can blow up the kitchen or something?"

"No, but it is supposed to be a surprise for tonght, so I need some privacy, or it won't be."

John thought about that. "Sherlock, most of what you do is a surprise to me. Is this one going to be especially explosive?"

""That's what I need to experiment with, so go away."

"Only if you promise me that when I get back, the kitchen will still be intact, and you won't have had to call the fire brigade." He had to go out anyway, as a few days ago he had invited a few people around for drinks tonight before they went off to Regent's Park to watch the Bonfire Night fireworks display. While Sherlock was not keen on the people side of it, he had readily agreed to go to the fireworks. "Are you sure you want to go, John? Explosions can trigger traumatic stress reactions from military people who've been wounded in action."

"That's very thoughtful of you, Sherlock, but it hasn't had any effect on me for the past three years. In any case, fireworks are beautiful, and they sound different from a mortar or sniper's gun, so I think I can cope."

Once the front door shut behind John, Sherlock sprang into action. He shut the curtains and turned out the kitchen lights- he had to test the colour. This year he was trying for a combination of purple and turquoise- quite challenging. The first needed a combination of strontium and copper salts, the latter just a particular copper halide.

He'd already tested the gunpowder element: that was the easy part. He wanted a bang that excited people, but wouldn't terrify; no need to drive Mrs Hudson to her herbal soothers. His mix consisted of 75% potassium nitrate (KNO3), 15% sugar (unconventional, but a good substitute for chemical grade carbon), and 10% sulfur. The rapid expansion of gases resulting when the fuse conducted heat to the chemicals led to the bang; the challenge was finding a wrapper that made the most satisfying noise when it burst apart. He'd managed that last week, when both John and Mrs Hudson were out. This year, he would put up with the social occasion that John had arranged. _Better to have an audience to appreciate my efforts_, he reasoned.

**oOo later that night oOo**

John passed the wine glass to Molly, who joined Mrs Hudson by the fireplace. They hadn't lit a fire, because they would be going out. Greg Lestrade was sitting in John's chair, and Mycroft had arrived to sit in Sherlock's chair. The 'British Government' would not be able to attend the fireworks in Regent's Park; regrettably, "pressing matters in the Far East" meant he would confine himself to a glass of wine and then would be off back to work. Looking around the flat, John felt pleased that for once, it looked tidy. Sherlock had even cleared away the lab kit from the kitchen table, which now had a suspicious looking object on it, covered in a black cloth. They had about ten more minutes before they would need to leave the flat and walk to Regent's Park, when Sherlock asked everyone to hold onto their glasses, as he was going to turn off the lights and "start things off".

With the curtains closed, no streetlight came in from Baker Street, so it was quite dark. Molly giggled nervously. Greg asked John whether he had a fire extinguisher ready. "Oh ye of little faith, Lestrade," came the dry comment from a detective's disembodied voice. He heard a match being struck over in the direction of the sofa, and then suddenly their eyes were dazzled by the spitting sparks flying off from a sparkler. Not just any sparkler- it was the exact shape of the smiley face spray-painted on the wall, and it lit up the darkness. John, Greg and Molly laughed; Mrs Hudson watched the sparks and said in a worried tone, "I hope that won't singe the wallpaper or leave scorch marks on the couch, or I really will take it out of your rent."

As the sparkling smiley died down, John could hear another match being lit in the kitchen. Sherlock retreated quickly, and then there was a loud bang, a flash of silver and then a whirling bright flare of purple, with turquoise sparks flying off in all directions, danced in circles across the table. It lasted for almost twenty seconds before a final series of crackles and another loud bang.

When the lights came on, Sherlock looked at Mycroft, who smiled. "Yes, Sherlock, I get the reference to colours in the Holmes coat of arms. And your skill at packing the gunpowder to produce two separate bangs is …definitely improving."

"You actually _made_ that, Sherlock? You didn't buy it from one of those contacts of yours in Chinatown?" Lestrade seemed incredulous. "That's good enough to be professional."

Sherlock sniffed. "I _am_ a professional at incendiaries, Lestrade. Just ask Mycroft about what happened to the garden shed on Guy Fawkes night when I was nine years old, if you don't believe me." But John could tell that his flatmate was actually pleased with the detective inspector's comment.

He couldn't resist teasing. "Sherlock, surely Bonfire Night is a rather frivolous social event that is beneath the notice of a serious scientist."

It was Mycroft who answered first. "On the contrary, John. The failure of the Gunpowder plot in 1605 was incredibly lucky. In a 2005 simulation 36 barrels of gunpowder were exploded to see what effect it would have had if it had gone off properly. The results were quite astonishing- if it had gone up as planned, not only the Houses of Parliament but Westminster Abbey as well would have been destroyed, and severe structural damage caused to houses three streets away. The Government would most certainly have fallen if it had been successful."

"I didn't think you were interested in politics, Sherlock," Molly commented. "Well, that's ...what I got from John's blg anyway…that you don't know stuff like who is the prime minister and all."

"I'm not interested and I couldn't care less about politics. But Guy Fawkes Night is a wonderful excuse to use chemistry to blow things up. Creating firework colors is a complex endeavor, requiring considerable art and application of physical science. Excluding propellants or special effects, the points of light ejected from fireworks generally require a complex calculation balancing oxygen-producer, fuel, binder (to keep everything where it needs to be), and color producer. Any idiot can manage outdoor fireworks, but indoor versions are particularly challenging." He paused here, "mostly because one's flatmate and landlady are likely to complain if there is too much burning material or smoke. I used to think that took all the fun away, but now I realise it just makes it more challenging and therefore worthy of my attention."

John smirked. "Well, _Guido_ Holmes, put your coat on and let's go, or the fireworks in the park will start without us."

Sherlock slipped into his Belstaff coat and put on his scarf. "On the way, I shall I tell you of the occasion when I burnt Mycroft in effigy at the top of our family bonfire. Now that was a particularly fun occasion, as I had to make it fat with extra padding, and I stole some of his favourite clothes to dress the effigy. You should have seen his face when he and Mummy realised what I had done- absolutely **explosive**!"


	10. Chapter 10: Expletive

**ex·ple·tive****/ˈeksplitiv/**

Noun:An oath or swear word, especially one that is profane, vulgar or obscene.

Adjective:(of a word or phrase) Serving to fill out a sentence.

* * *

I've been a soldier. A doctor, too, but I've spent a lot of time in the company of people who used swearing as a way of conversation. Expletives are the salt in army food, the spice of parade ground banter, the vinegar of mess room dinner gossip, adding piquant flavours to a military life spent in the company of men. Yes, of course, the new British army included women, even serving in combat zones. And the RAMC had its fair share of extremely competent women medical professionals serving both behind and on the battle lines. But, I'd found that even if they looked like butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, most of them could out-swear even the hardest of squaddies on a bad day.

So, when confronted by trouble or difficulty, or just having a bad day at the surgery, I don't hold back when safe behind the doors of 221b. The only exception is when I know that Mrs Hudson is within earshot, in which case I restrain my natural enthusiasm. Well, I would mind my manners in front of my mother, so it seems sensible to do so for our landlady, in deference to her age. But when she isn't around, I've been known to turn the air blue. Whether I spill a cup of tea, or find (yet again) that one of my jumpers misappropriated by a certain detective to test his latest theory about how a criminal relied on acid eating through wool fibres for his alibi, well, Mycroft's surveillance teams might be learning a few new words to add to their reports.

My flatmate is on occasion somewhat perplexed by the richness of my profane vocabulary. After one such tirade by me lasting almost a minute long, uttered in the face of yet another burned piece of toast, Sherlock could no longer rein in his curiosity.

"John, in the interests of scientific enquiry, does your swearing serve some psychological function? By using such terms, does your recovery time improve? Is there some exponential relationship between the vulgarity of the word and your sense of emotional release and emotional well-being?"

That made me realise that I couldn't remember Sherlock ever swearing. No, when he wanted to let loose his irritation with the world and the idiots who occupied it, he just tore into someone for what their clothes told him about their sex lives, or how the scuff on their shoe revealed some deep seated gambling compulsion or sexual perversion. But, profanity? No, it just wasn't Sherlock's thing.

I sniffed. "Well, Sherlock, not all of us are posh gits who went to public school and Cambridge. I suppose swearing has been bred out of the upper classes in this country, but to normal people, we rank and file members of the human race, we use expletives to add emphasis to our words."

Far from being insulted, his eyes took on that forensic keenness usually reserved for crime scenes. "Does that emphasis have some quantitative measure? You know, like chilli peppers' heat is rated by the Scoville scale, which identifies the levels of capsicum present and the organoleptic reactions caused. Does one 'fucking' equal four 'friggings', I wonder?" He said this with an utterly straight face.

I couldn't help but giggle at the thought. An entire dictionary of swear words assembled by Sherlock based on clinical research.

"I am being serious, John. There is merit in trying to establish scales of understanding the degree of emphasis involved. I am sure it is culturally derived, but expletives vary dramatically from sexual references, to blaspheming, scatological references, words used to demonstrate disgust. And then there is the whole vocabulary relating to animal names, racial and ethnic slurs, vulgarity and offensive slangs, as well as taboos. Surely in the interests of precision, users would value an understanding of which provided the greatest degree of emphasis."

My mind boggled- (_Excuse me, Lestrade, but was that 'bloody' epithet worse or milder than the term "asshole" when applied to Anderson's forensic skills?)_ It would lend a whole new layer of meaning to crime scene conversastions.

"So, why Sherlock don't you use expletives?"

"Expletives are designed to give emotional emphasis, John. What part of your experience of me suggests that I would want to engage in an emotional outburst? Why would I waste space in my mind palace with such emotional trivia?"

"Bloody typical of you, _expletive deleted_, then."


	11. Chapter 11: Exclude

**exclude /ik·sklud/ **

Verb: Deny (someone) access to or bar (someone) from a place, group, or privilege. Keep (something) out of a place.

* * *

Policemen (and women) are a surprisingly 'matey' lot; they not only work together, but they often socialise together, too. So, it wasn't really that surprising to discover that the New Scotland Yard team often ended up in a pub after work, especially if the crime scene they'd just left was a particularly difficult or gruesome one. I'd seen similar in the army. The worse the day job is, the more you cling together to let off steam before going home. No one wants to bring the horror back to your family or loved ones; you just don't talk about stuff like that at home. Around a table in a pub with your colleagues, it's easier to get it off your chest, put it into context, and just relax. You don't even have to like each other.

I hadn't been tagging along behind Sherlock for long before Lestrade made his move. "Fancy a pint, Doctor Watson? The team's heading to the Feathers down the road for a quick one."

I watched the swirl of a dark coat as Sherlock stood up and handed the last of the evidence bags to an annoyed looking Anderson. "Don't lose these, and be sure to use the enzyme reagent this time. You completely botched the last one, and if it hadn't been for my ability to get him to confess, the case would never have come to court." His distain was apparent, as was Anderson's annoyance.

I looked back at the DI. "Somehow, I can't picture Sherlock propping up a bar with Anderson, can you?"

Lestrade snorted. "You clearly haven't known Sherlock for long, have you? He never goes to a pub. Probably too common for him, the posh git. Anyway, he'd spend his time deducing what the other people in the pub got up to in their spare time. He doesn't drink beer, and says that social occasions are 'tedious.'"

I laughed, "yep, that sounds like Sherlock alright."

Lestrade chuckled. His comment wasn't snide- just honest, and delivered with surprising affection. It made me realise that the times I had seen him at crime scenes watching Sherlock with a slightly bemused expression on his face.

"You _like _him, don't you?"

"Yeah, well, I respect his abilities and although he can be totally impossible, I've come to understand just a tiny bit of what goes on in that strange brain of his. I've got time for him, though, Lord knows, most of the Yard can't stand him."

I enjoy a good pint as much as any man, and the company of the Yarders was appealing after the evening's work. I didn't have a date tonight, so why not? But, I didn't want to leave Sherlock out, and it made me feel awkward if I said yes, when the crime scene team wouldn't even ask him. It seemed, I don't know, sort of disloyal. "Won't he feel excluded?"

"Really, John, he won't mind. I bet he'll make some snarky comment about pubs having as much appeal to him as the outer ring of Dante's inferno."

Yeah, that sounded like him, too. Clearly Greg knew Sherlock better than I did.

While the SOCO crew finished up, Sherlock came back to me and the NSY Detective, and set off on his rapid fire deductions. "The presence of the red cashmere thread on the victim's coat is conclusive; Lestrade, you need to find her brother- he will be able to tell you whether it's her fiancé or the work colleague whose jumper the thread comes from. Both have motive, both had opportunity, and both have a cashmere sweater that colour, but only one of the two will have sold him the counterfeit drugs that he's been flogging on the internet for the past year. He's the accessory in the murder we've been looking for, and if you threaten him with taking the full blame, I'm sure he will give up his accomplice."

Greg looked incredulous. "You got all that from a red thread?"

"Oh, do keep up; you're supposed to be one of Scotland Yard's best detectives, so surely that much would have been obvious to you?"

Greg smirked at him, and said "Well, Sherlock, you know that I owe my reputation at the Yard for having the best case clear up rate because I let you into the crime scenes. So, maybe my skill is just in choosing to include you on my team."

I saw my chance. "As a part of that team, Sherlock, do you want to head down to the pub with me and the rest of them?"

"Why would I want to do that?" He seemed genuinely puzzled.

"To celebrate closing the case?" I said tentatively. "I mean, it wouldn't be right to exclude the star of the show, the person who actually cracked the case, would it?"

Sherlock looked askance. "It's only exclusion if a person _wants_ to be a part of a group and is denied entry. I have no wish to be a part of _that _group, John."

The tall brunette thought about it a bit more. "So, John, when you've finished doing whatever it is that you like doing at a pub, please remember to leave them behind when you come home at closing time. I wouldn't want any of _them_ showing up at Baker Street. I have strict standards you know, and generally prefer to exclude idiots."

I smirked, "Well, I think I should take that as a compliment. See you later, Sherlock."


	12. Chapter 12: Exacerbate

**In response to a prompt from dreykar, whose Mind Palace collection is just superb!**

* * *

**ex·ac·er·bate** [ig-**zas**-er-beyt, ek-**sas**-]

_**verb (used with object)**_

-to increase the severity, bitterness, or violence of (disease, ill feeling, etc.); aggravate

-to embitter the feelings of (a person); irritate; exasperate.

* * *

Ever since that first exchange I witnessed between them at the crime scene where I shot the cabbie to stop Sherlock from taking that damn pill, I have never, ever, really understood what it is about the two Holmes brothers. Harry and I have our disagreements, and yeah, I get it that relationships can become very tense. Siblings carry around with them the ball and chain of years of arguments, grudges, slanging matches and competition for parental love. We've got history, as the saying goes. And, it can be very strange to be expected to like or love someone simply because of the fact that you share some genes. We don't _choose_ our families, and I think that for a lot of us, if we had the choice, we certainly wouldn't select each other as friends.

But, all that doesn't matter, in the end, because family is family. And when Harry calls me, drunk again or in tears about a breakup with her latest love life, I can't say no. Because family has a prior call on your commitments. That's probably genetic, too; somewhere back in our primate evolution it made sense to help someone out who shared your genes, over a perfect stranger.

Put the pair of Holmes brothers in the same room, however, and all that seems to go out the window.

On the one hand they are so obviously chips off the same block- too intelligent for their own good, arrogant, scary and both the product of a family that obviously had wealth and status, but not a lot of love shared between them. You don't get called the Iceman if you had a normal emotional childhood, do you?. Sometimes I think Mycroft was born in a three piece suit. And Sherlock? Well, he defies description. I can just see a twelve year old version of him shouting at Mycroft, "Caring is not an advantage," and storming off in a huff, slamming the door as he goes. Come to think of it, he did that last week, so maybe age isn't an issue here.

They squared up to each other at that crime scene like two boxers. Mycroft's quick jab "Has it ever occurred to you that we should be on the same side?" provoked a left hook from Sherlock: "Funnily enough, no."

So, what was the "petty feud" that Mycroft referred to and why was "mummy upset"? They've never confessed to what it was, and in all honesty, I've been afraid to ask. It was enough that Sherlock called his brother his arch enemy, and that was on the very first night we met up at Baker Street.

Over the past three years, I've watched their bickering turn progressively nastier. The real turning point? Oh, that's easy to pick out- when their usual verbal warfare was exacerbated by something else that I've never got to the bottom of- probably because my security clearance isn't high enough. When I went out to give Irene Adler and Sherlock "a bit of space", I came back to an empty flat. I'm not sure what I expected them to get up to, but disappearing wasn't top of the list, unless Irene managed to drag him off to a bedroom as she kept threatening to do. Hours later, when Sherlock finally appeared, he wouldn't say anything other than "It's over, John; I've unlocked the phone and Mycroft has it…and her, probably trying to find out about Moriarty before he lets her loose to face the wrath of her clients when she no longer has any insurance." He then just disappeared into his room, and _the woman_ was scarcely ever mentioned again. And I've not wanted to exacerbate the problem by raising it again, since neither of the Holmes brothers will talk about it- to me, or to each other, from what I can tell.

It's got to the point now where they hardly exchange words now. There was a brief flurry of text and telephone exchanges around the time of our trip to Dartmoor, but as soon as we were back, the war of silence resumed. And now that Moriarty's trial is about to start, there's no sign at all of Big Brother. And that's got me worried, it really has. Because no matter how difficult things get between the two Holmes brothers, I just can't help but think they need to stand together against what is coming, or it's going to all end in tears.


	13. Chapter 13: Excuse

**ex·cuse**/ikˈskyo͞oz/

Verb: Attempt to lessen the blame attaching to (a fault or offense); seek to defend or justify.

Noun: A reason or explanation put forward to defend or justify a fault or offense.

* * *

"Excuse me". I put as much annoyance as I could into the phrase.

"What for?" came the calm reply almost instantaneously.

"I need to get to the kettle."

"So?"

"You're in the way, Sherlock. You're always in the way when you sit at the kitchen table to do your experiments."

He didn't even look up from the microscope. "Where else do you suggest I do them? Your bedroom perhaps?"

"No need to get sarky. Just move it, pull your chair in so I can get by."

"For good posture it is important to sit a reasonable distance from the table. As a doctor, you should know that, because you have to deal with the skeletal consequences all the time from your patients." He didn't move, he didn't look up, he just reached out for the next slide and slipped it under the microscope lens.

"SHERLOCK!"

Now he looked up, a look of incomprehension on his face. "What's the matter with you?"

"You are between me and a cup of tea. And there you are in the way, faffing about and playing with your toys. After the day I've had, you are risking a lot when you are between me and the only thing that is going to restore my mood. "

"Is that any excuse for being rude?"

"Rude? RUDE? I'll tell you what's rude…" and I set off on a long list of offences that Sherlock was guilty of, starting with putting a half-rotten slab of human thigh on a plate in the microwave (_How was I to know that you thought it was steak, John? It's an experiment to test how muscle fibre burns at a differential rate to soft tissue.) _and running through a half a dozen other misdemeanours before ending with his consuming the last of the milk this morning, just after I had poured a bowl of cereal.

I was in a mood, and he wasn't helping.

"John, all but the last of the 'crimes' you are accusing me of committing relate to my scientific experiments. They are important for my work. They contribute to the knowledge of crime scene analysis, and could conceivably change the course of justice. I don't think I have to apologise for them, when they can either free an innocent person, or put a guilty one behind bars."

"So, that's your excuse, is it?"

"Yes, what's yours?"

"Mine? What do you mean?"

"What's your excuse for being so grumpy and taking it out on me?"

Actually, he had a point. I'd had a miserable day at the surgery, starting with one patient throwing up on me (_Winter vomiting sickness, John. Never a pretty sight, especially when you bring it home on your shirt) _and another one accusing me of not taking her complaint seriously (_Statistically speaking, John, serial minor symptoms usually indicate a more significant undiagnosed condition. Were you listening but not hearing?) _ As a doctor, however, I am supposed to be able to deal with all this and keep smiling. He was probably right; because I was tired, I was just having a go at him, becuase he was here and I could.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. You're right."

"Apology accepted. It's a good excuse."

He stood up and stretched behind him to turn on the kettle.


	14. Chapter 14 Exercise

**ex·er·cise** (ksr-sz)

_n. _A task, problem, or other activity that requires physical or mental exertion, especially when performed to develop or maintain fitness or increase skill

_ t.v _To put into play or operation; employ; bring to bear; exert:To absorb the attentions of, especially by worry or anxiety; stir to anger or alarm; upset.

* * *

He'd been winded from all the running- a fifteen minute full tilt sprint up and down fire escapes, rooftops and back alleys. That was his excuse anyway. He'd been grabbed by one of the suspects when he stopped to catch his breath, watching Sherlock disappear down the alley in a swirl of that Belstaff coat. Annoyed by being caught flat-footed, John rammed his elbow back hard into the abdomen of the stocky man who had tried to strangle him. There was a gasp of pain, and then the thug sank down on one knee, as he struggled to catch his breath. _Paralysed his diaphragm_. This brought the man's chin down to a level that John could easily reach. One quick punch and the thug was out for the count. John grabbed the plastic zip cuffs out of his back pocket, and secured the man's hands behind his back, in one swift movement before standing up to look around to see how Sherlock was getting on.

Down at the far end of the dead-end alley, Sherlock was squaring off with two of the others suspects. John grimaced. _Why do they always assume he's going to be harder than me to take down? _It had become a noticeable pattern, if the fight was the two of them against three criminals. The taller detective always drew the two, because the others would believe a man as short as John would be easy enough for one of them to subdue. Of course, they always underestimated the smaller man, and suffered the consequences. The doctor's military training made short work of most people who tried hand-to-hand combat with him. Somehow, the boxing lessons Sherlock had at public school seemed to be less than useful against criminals who didn't fight by Queensbury Rules.

Sherlock had learned to stall for time, so that John could re-join him and even up the odds. Except that wasn't happening now. The bigger of his two opponents standing at the farther end drew a pistol. John was a good fifty feet away and started to run.

He needn't have bothered. Sherlock exploded into action and executed a series of sharp stiff arm blows to the nearer of the two men, and as he staggered, the detective aimed a vicious 180 degree spin kick at his knee. John could hear the crack of bone and cartilage even at his distance. Sherlock spun away without a backward glance and attacked the man with the gun, who had only just begun to draw it up into position to fire. "_No!" _John shouted to try to distract the assailant who was moving with menace toward his friend.

Once again, John was amazed to watch Sherlock take the gun wielding criminal down with professional ease. His manoeuvre involved a close hold, coming inside the gun arm, which was slapped away to the left sharp, followed by a slap to the man's right ear, startling him for a second, which was long enough for Sherlock to aim a swift knee into the suspect's groin. It was followed by a stiff armed blow to the forearm of the hand carrying the gun which clattered onto the alley floor, his hand numbed and useless. Sherlock then moved in a blur, and by the time that John was within ten feet, he had the suspect helpless in a highly unusual head lock.

"I need to know when, where, what and most important who. I can break your neck with one move, so you'd better start talking". The detective wasn't even out of breath, but the big man he had pinioned was clearly terrified.

"The drop is tomorrow at three o'clock, down at the factory on Mile End Road."

"Who's going to be there?" Sherlock asked mildly. He shifted the choke hold, applying slightly more pressure on the carotid artery, as John picked up the Russian's weapon- it was a brand new Strizh pistol, one from the consignment that they'd been chasing for weeks.

There was a hesitation. John watched as Sherlock just shifted his arm around the neck of the suspect again and began to apply pressure, pushing the man's head to the right. This ground the neck muscles into the bones of the vertebra putting pressure on the top of the spine, provoking a strangled cry.

"Alright! Alright! Don't …" the suspect cried out. "There'll be three boys from the manor," he was wheezing now, "picking up the material from the van- and probably a lookout or two. They ain't suspecting any trouble, so it should be easy to get him. He'll be collecting his fee." The thug dragged in a deep breath, then grimaced as Sherlock renewed his grip. "Ahh, for Christ's sake, let me go." At this, the man's eyes caught sight of John and there was pleading in them.

John was surprised by Sherlock's sudden display of deadly martial art skill. _Where the hell did that come from? _His friend had never shown such deft handling of the physical side of his crime work.

Later, when the suspects had been collected by Lestrade and his team, John and Sherlock shared a taxi back to Baker Street. The suspect's tip-off about tomorrow's meeting had been gratefully received by the New Scotland Yard detective. "This string of murders has been driving us crazy. The Russian gun trafficking ring has been working their way through our police informers like a hot knife through butter; nice to get our hands on their hit man tomorrow. Thanks- now get out of here- and I don't want to see you two anywhere near Mile End Road tomorrow afternoon. This is a job for SO19, so stay out of it, please."

Now in the back of the cab, John found himself looking at Sherlock again, wondering where the tall brunette had acquired those martial art skills. His friend was in his usual post-case withdrawal- eyes vacantly watching London by night go by the window on his side of the taxi.

"Sherlock, those were pretty interesting moves you used against your two suspects. Is there something you aren't telling me?"

"Hmm?"

He was still looking out the window. "Sherlock, you normally wait for me before tackling two suspects. But tonight you didn't even need me. Where did you learn those manoeuvres?"

The brunette turned to his friend. "I can't assume you'll always be with me, John. And despite all the brainpower in the world, there are times when the body needs exercise, too. I need to be able to take care of myself. I've been building up my fitness and muscle weight, and working out with someone who is teaching me Bartitsu."

"Bartitsu? What's that? Never heard of it."

"No reason why you should. It's something developed by Edmund Barton Wright at the end of the 19th century. It combines a lot of things that you'll be familiar with- jujitsu, judo, kick and regular boxing, fencing and some you might not be, such as French Savate and Swiss Schwingen. Think the full range of mixed martial arts on steroids. "

"Who is teaching you?"

"A professor is researching the techniques and needs a sparring partner. I consulted him some while ago when a body turned up at the Barts Morgue with an unusual bone break pattern. He was most useful, and is proving to be so again."

John thought about it, and asked the next obvious question. "Why this attention to your 'transport', why now?"

"There are no rules in bartitsu. It's street fighting at its most pure form. The fact that it isn't well known is useful- no military training ground graduates will have been drilled in how to defend themselves against it, and it's unknown in the criminal fraternity. I need to be ready, John. And, given Moriarty, it is wise to prepare for the worst."

The thought sobered John. The sense of foreboding that had been hanging over them since the pool felt just that little bit sharper in focus tonight. He decided he should do the same, resume his nightly army exercise routine and take off a few of the excess pounds accumulated from too many take out meals. A regular run might help his stamina. A few sessions at the firing range wouldn't hurt either. As John's army instructors always drilled into him, nothing beats a sensible exercise of advance preparation and risk management. The mood in the taxi was sombre all the way back to Baker Street, with both men lost in their thoughts about what the future might bring.


	15. Chapter 15 Expression

**expression**/ikˈspreSHən/

Noun: The process of making known one's thoughts or feelings.

The conveying of opinions publicly without interference by others: "freedom of expression".

* * *

I've always been a smiler. My mother used to say that. Harriet cried a lot and fussed, her face in a perpetual pout or scowl. But, me- mum said I slept through the night from the time I came home from the hospital and was always a "cheery little lad", to use her words. I didn't much like the 'little' aspect of that phrase; been sensitive about my height since school, when I realised that other boys seemed to be growing faster than me.

That led me to smile when bigger boys underestimated me, and suffered the consequences. A smile of triumph, that. Family also taught me that smiling was a way of defusing others' anger- usually at each other, rather than me. I ended up being the peacemaker all too often in my family, trying to stop my parents and Harry from coming to blows, yet again. I could use my smile to keep both sides onside, and not lose their trust. I swear at times it was like lion taming- and a smile there keeps dangerous animals at bay.

Later, when I started dating, girls would say it was my smile that convinced them to say yes. Something about being friendly and accessible, keeping them feeling comfortable. I ended up wearing a smile like I would a new jumper, to attract a bit of female company. First impressions count.

A good smile is a professional asset for a doctor, too, it kind of goes with the bedside manner. You learn to deliver reassurance through your facial muscles. It becomes an act, in part, because you often know too many of the risks that you don't necessarily want to pass onto patients or their families too early. So you learn to hide behind that smile.

The army does that to you, as well. Officers can't go around wearing a face that is too expressive; might scare the squaddies too much if they really knew what you were thinking. So, the older I got and the more senior the position, the more my smile became a way of deflecting others, keeping them reassured when I might actually be feeling something different. Especially after I was invalided out of the army, and got lost in depression whilst trying to adjust back to civilian life. The smile got trotted out then whenever someone wanted to pry just a little too much. It reassured people, no matter what might be going on behind it.

I had not realised how automatic my use of a smile was until I had spent a number of months sharing a flat with Sherlock. Unlike me, he doesn't smile often. In that way his expressions are actually more honest than mine. Oh, I've seen him use it as a tool of questioning, or to get something he wants out of a suspect or just a person who has something he needs. It was really weird to see him suddenly become charming, solicitous and apparently happy- all as part of a disguise. He's a great actor, in fact, a better one than his brother, who smiles a lot more, but whose smiles never seem to reach his eyes somehow.

I became more aware of Sherlock's genuine expressions the longer I spent time with him. The little furrow between his eyebrows when he was trying to puzzle something out that he didn't understand about someone's behaviour, or the odd sideways look at me when he was checking if something was a little 'not good'. I learned his excited manic smile- that's a bit like a kid on Christmas morning, but for him of course it was usually in response to some particularly complicated and gruesome case that had just been handed to him by New Scotland Yard.

Then there is the little smirk he gave when he was amused at someone's stupidity- Anderson's or Donovan's, which he would then proceed to expose and correct in that oh-so-superior tone of voice. Think of "I told you so" on steroids- always guaranteed to raise my blood pressure a little, that one, because it seemed designed to provoke a negative reaction.

Then there was the real, genuine…amazing smile that he gave just to me. A little tentative at first, as if he was afraid to let a truth out. And then when I couldn't resist but smile back at him, his would blossom and, my God, it just took my breath away. He did it three times that first night, the first was when I got the giggles about his "welcome to London" and I pulled Lestrade's ID out of his hand. The second was when we ended up in the hall at Baker Street and we could hardly catch our breaths, he joked about me invading Afghanistan, and we just laughed together. And then after I shot the cabbie to stop him from taking that pill, and I told him he was an idiot- he gave me that same smile, almost as if he couldn't believe my reaction. His smiles that night were an expression of that instant connection we made, so much so that he could state with total confidence to Mrs Hudson that I would be taking the flatshare, knowing that I would.

I have always valued the real smile so much, and now that he is gone, I find it hard to remember the last time I saw it. What pops into my memory instead is the embarrassed smile he wore at the press conference when the Yarders gave him the deerstalker hat, and I made him wear it for the cameras. Or the wicked smirk he gave when he timed just how long he could get away with using Mycroft's ID at the Baskerville facility. He didn't smile much when Irene was around, whatever he might have been feeling. In fact, in the last months, he seemed sad, but like an idiot, I didn't realise what that meant.

And so now, I have very little to smile about. I still wheel it out as a way of reassuring others than I'm coping. But it isn't real, not anymore, it's just an expression.


	16. Chapter 16: Expect

**Author's Note: OK- I know I am using a lot of Gatiss dialogue here, but I've always wondered what the scene looked like from inside John's mind. And sometimes, I think we understimate his powers of deduction and observation.**

* * *

**expect **/ikˈspekt/

Verb: Regard (something) as likely to happen.

Regard (someone) as likely to do or be something.

* * *

I'm not sure what I was expecting. Mike had laughed and said it was the second time that day someone had said "who would want a flatmate like me?" and then he led me off to Barts. So, on the way I couldn't help but wonder what, or rather who, he was taking me to meet. Likely to be a medical connection, given Barts- probably a colleague, another consultant, maybe someone his age recently divorced, looking for cheap accommodation in central London while paying alimony and maintenance to a wife and kids in the suburbs? Or maybe, a post-graduate student? Of course, Barts is full of other people- doctors of all shapes and sizes, nurses, technicians, administrators. So, most likely, someone medical.

By the time we went up the stairs past the teaching classrooms and through the doors of a smaller laboratory, my mind was already turning towards researcher. But what I saw once I got in the room was not what I expected.

To start with, the kit had changed since my day, and that's what I said under my breath to Mike. The place had all the usual chemistry stuff, but with a hefty dose of IT, too- computers, chemical analysis kit, electron microscopes, centrifuges- things that in my day as a Barts student were simply too big and expensive to let youth play with.

And the only person in the room, in the far corner bent over a light box using a pipette to do something to a petrie dish, didn't look like anything I expected to see in a lab. To start with, any idiot knows you don't wear a suit when you're experimenting with chemicals. That's what white lab coats are designed for- something you can wash again and again, and eventually replace when you spill something horrible on it. As med students, we wore scrubs as much as we could get away with- made you feel more like a doctor (_medical camouflage_) and the hospital laundry took care of it too, meaning you didn't waste money.

That was the other thing that caught my eye. The guy at the end of the room wasn't just wearing a suit, it was an expensive suit. I may not dress in Armani, but I know a reasonable amount about men's clothing. Going to Sandhurst for my ten week RAMC Officer's training course was a real eye opener. Of course, we all wore uniforms, but off duty, off base was a different matter, and the clothing people wore told you everything you needed to know about a person.

So, the tall slender man at the end of the room wore his suit as if it had been made for him. Probably was, I realised when he spoke.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine. "

That was an English public school accent- somewhere home counties, if I wasn't mistaken. I had an ear for accents; it helped no end when meeting new people as a doctor and an Army Captain, to get a person placed in my mind. And it fit the suit, too, because the request was delivered in that slightly offhand manner typical of someone born into money and privilege.

Because I know Mike, and he had brought me here to meet this guy, I was curious. So, I decided to see what he was like.

"Uh, here, use mine," and reached into my back pocket to pull the phone out. I didn't move toward him, because, quite frankly, my leg was giving me a bit of gyp after all the walking back from the park.

"Oh, thank you." He cast a quick glance at Mike and then came toward me. As Mike introduced me as an old friend of his, the young man took the phone from my outstretched hand, flipped it open and started to type at a blistering speed. Closer up, and watching him move, I realised he was younger than I had first thought, maybe 30? A bit old to be a post-graduate student, a bit young to be a colleague of Mike's. A puzzle, then.

And then he asked the most unexpected thing.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" while he typed away.

"Sorry?" I could see Mike smirk.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" He gave me the briefest of glances and I got my first really good look at his eyes- a strange sort of grey green, set in a very pale face, framed by unruly and long dark hair. Definitely not a military man; no, just about the antithesis, so how would he know about my service? I can recognise a fellow army man by the way he holds himself, the haircut, the clothing- we get to recognise one another after spending years in each other's company. But, this guy was clearly nothing to do with the armed forces.

"Uh, Afghanistan; how did you…"

The door behind me opened and a young woman came in wearing a white lab coat, carrying a cup of coffee.

As he handed me back my phone, the young man spoke up. "Ah Molly, coffee, thank you" and reached for the mug. Then he looked puzzled. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me." She seemed a bit shy and uneasy. Rather sweet- and clearly a bit attracted to the young man. I'm good at ready female body language- it's a favourite hobby of mine, enjoying the landscape. But his reply showed that the girl's feeling wasn't reciprocated.

He turned back toward his experiment and said "Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's …too small now," and he waved his hand rather dismissively.

So, gauche as hell. I felt sorry for the young woman, who just muttered softly "OK, then.", as if resigned to being treated like a doormat. So, he had no idea how to be polite to the fairer sex; in fact, was rather socially inept. A geek?

Then he asked me something even more unexpected than his first question.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

I stalled for a second, looking at Mike for confirmation that this question was aimed at me, rather than him. The young woman beat a hasty retreat and left the lab, so I asked, "Sorry, what?"

He was looking down at his experiment. "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" He looked up at me. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." And then he gave me a weird smile, the sort of smile that nearly passed for normal, but didn't quite make it in my book. It made me wary.

I looked back at Mike, confused. "You… you told him about me?"

Mike shook his head, "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" I was a little annoyed. It was as if I hadn't been informed about what was going on, so I shifted a bit on my feet. Old habit that- when I feel uncomfortable, I get my weight settled over the balls of my feet-it's the fight or flight instinct at play when you get faced with the unexpected.

"I did." It was delivered with total confidence, as he shouldered on his expensive overcoat and did a public school boy thing with his blue scarf. "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just back from military service in Afghanistan….Not a difficult leap."

There was something smug in his tone that irked me slightly. "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

He didn't even bother to reply, except to say "I have my eye on a nice little place in central London; together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening at seven o'clock." Then with an apologetic smile, "Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." And with that slightly alarming comment, he swept by me and headed for the door.

Now, there is one thing that gets me really annoyed, and that's being taken for granted. I may be small, but it usually only takes one occasion before people realise that I am worth a bit more consideration than at first glance they might think I am due. So, in a firm voice, I asked "Is that it?

It was enough to make him turn away from the door, and ask warily "Is that what?"

"We've only just met, and we're going to look at a flat." I loaded it with enough scepticism to make it clear I wouldn't be taken for granted. Was this guy an upper class twit?

"Problem?" There was a tiny bit of uncertainty.

I just looked away and laughed. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."

He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. Then he proceeded to tell me just how much he did know about me- even down to the psychosomatic limp, my therapist and Harry's fight with Clara that had led to her gift of the phone. It was delivered at breakneck speed and in a factual tone that showed he knew, really knew these things about me. As I was mentally reeling, he ended it with a slightly quiet comment "That's enough to be going on, don't you think?"

As I was digesting this, he walked out, leaning back briefly around the door to say, "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street." Then he did the most unexpected thing of all: he winked. "Afternoon", he said to Mike, and then in a swirl of long coat, he was gone.

I looked at Mike in amazement. "Yep, he's always like that." From then on, I knew to expect the unexpected from my extraordinary flatmate.


	17. Chapter 17: Extract

**extract** (ik-strkt)

To draw or pull out, often with great force or effort: _extract the shrapnel._

To obtain, despite resistance: _extract a promise._

To obtain from a substance by chemical or mechanical action, as by pressure, distillation, or evaporation.

To deduce (a principle or doctrine); construe (a meaning).

To derive (pleasure or comfort) from an experience.

* * *

John tried not to twitch. He tried to project an air of calm, cool, professional detachment. After all, he was a medical man, a trauma surgeon with battlefield experience. It just wouldn't do to let his emotions out. Might distract the trauma team from doing what they needed to do.

But, he was finding it hard, very hard. He was usually the one around the table, making decisions, taking action, saving a life. Now, as simply the patient's advocate, he knew he was lucky to even be in the room, a place reserved normally for family members only. The resus team had taken pity on him, because they knew him and the patient now lying comatose on the table.

Various emotions were warring with one another inside John's head, while he struggled to maintain his face in neutral. First and foremost, this wasn't just another patient, another list of symptoms and conditions to be dealt with, in that peculiar atmosphere of calm authority that normally characterised his work as a medical professional.

The bomb had been small, targeted and deadly. Not the first time that night, John wondered what the hell Sherlock had been doing to get involved with something that the CTC branch of the Metropolitan Police should have been handling rather than Lestrade's Homicide team, but it was too late to be thinking about what might have been prevented if he'd been home to ask his friend the obvious question (_Sherlock, why would they want you to get involved?)_ He guessed, and Mycroft confirmed it on the phone, that this was something outside the detective's usual remit. The Security Services and their brethren across the Thames at Vauxall should have been on the case, too, not the world's only consulting detective. Now a certain minor official in the British Government was on his way home from the latest G20 summit meeting in New Delhi, anticipated back at Heathrow in four hours.

In the meantime, his brother was lying on a hospital trolley with a load of doctors trying to figure out if the fragment of wooden door frame from the crime scene now embedded in Sherlock's back could be extracted without damaging the detective's spine. And there was another neurologist examining the head CT scans and tutting about the consequences of a possible hairline fracture that might or might not be there. It promised to be a long night...

oOo

Seventeen hours later, and the scene had moved on. Now John was sitting in a hospital room, waiting for a certain person to recover consciousness. The piece of wood had been extracted, and the prognosis was good- there was a chip out of the transverse costal facet of the 11th thoracic vertebra, but miraculously, the penetration was not leading to any spinal swelling or neural damage. A ligament had been nearly sliced through, but the surgeons had sorted it, and John hoped that Sherlock's left hand would not be troubled too long, a six week break from the violin was the likely consequence. An MRI had been done, and the suspected skull fracture had not in fact materialised- just a concussion, no cerebral bleeding or obvious swelling. All in all, a result. But, until he woke up, John would not breathe a sigh of relief. It should have happened before now, and the delay was weighing heavily on John.

Mycroft had come and gone. Consultation with the doctors confirmed that Sherlock's life was no longer in danger, and his brother wanted to get to the bottom of what had actually happened at the crime scene. Sherlock wasn't the only one injured- Lestrade's scalp laceration from flying glass had been sutured in the Emergency Department, and he'd been sent home. One of the crime scene DCs had been admitted for more serious leg injuries caused by the blast. Mycroft wanted to know if the people behind the bomb included a certain Irishman, but John had been unable to shed any light on that- because he'd been on a late locum shift rather than with Sherlock.

John didn't have much to think about during those long seventeen hours except play lots of "what if".

What if he'd been home instead of taking that locum shift? Would asking the right question at the right time have made a difference, and kept Sherlock at home? (_Don't be silly, John, it was a case, and an interesting one at that_)

What if he'd gone with Sherlock, and spotted the fact that it was a set up for the bombing? (_And you think you would have seen something that I didn't see? Since when are you more observant at crime scenes than I am?_)

What if, he'd been there on the scene to see to Sherlock's injuries quicker, rather than having to wait for the ambulances to arrive 17 minutes later? (_Really, John, I know you're a good doctor, but I wasn't bleeding out, and the injuries weren't made any worse by the wait.) _

This sort of internal dialogue was filling the silence in the room, with John knowing exactly what Sherlock would have said, if he had been awake to say it.

John drew his hands through his hair and scrubbed at his eyes. He was going to have to go for another coffee soon. He sighed. "So, just wake up now and say it".

"mmph. Say...what?" The mumble was slurred and quiet, but it was definitely there and John's smile erupted.

"That you're an idiot, that's what."

"Why?"

Now John switched into doctor mode and started on the GCS questions.

"Do you know where you are?"

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and then slowly opened. _Eye opening in response to speech, that's a three._

He groaned. "In a place I hate- hospital."

"And do you know why you are here?"

Silence. The moment lengthened, and John began to worry.

Eventually, Sherlock answered. "Has something to do with the canister... I should have realised why it was there on the table."

_Conversational, but showing signs of disorientation and confusion? _John mentally assigned that a 4 for verbal response.

"I could smell that it was sulphur, just didn't put it together properly, because it didn't seem to have anything to do with the body. Stupid, really stupid. I mean one pot desulfurisation of light oils by chemical oxidation and solvent extraction with room temperature ionic liquids is a classic activity of home-made bombs."

John re-adjusted the score up to the maximum of five.

He smirked. "Ok, Sherlock, you know the drill. Put your finger on your nose for me, so I can rate motor response. "

Instead, he got a rude gesture involving a middle finger. "That'll do."

"So, am I good to go? When can I get out of here?"

"Only if you promise me to stay out of crime scenes involving bombs for at least the next 48 hours."

Sherlock looked annoyed. "What happens if there's another one, John? Deduction says this is likely to be a serial offender with a grudge against the Met. I need to get back to the scene before Anderson destroys any more useful evidence."

John was adamant. Crossed his arms and stared down at the bed-ridden detective. "Nope. You don't get out of here unless I can extract a promise from you that you will take it easy for at least three days. You've got a hell of a concussion and need to be under observation for at least 48 to 56 hours. If you won't promise to uphold my rules, I won't let them release you."

"Oh, hell! Arguing with you makes my head hurt."

"Then take these tablets of paracetemol and be quiet." Sherlock huffed, but took the pills. And John took pleasure and comfort that for once, his friend was doing as he was told.


	18. Chapter 18: Exterminate

**exterminate **/ikˈstərməˌnāt/

Verb: Destroy completely.

Kill (a pest).

* * *

John smacked the rolled up newspaper down on the kitchen countertop, trying to crush the scuttling insect. It was annoying, deeply annoying. He was up again in the middle of the night fixing himself a cup of tea in his tiny flat in the modern block. Turning on the light and reaching for the kettle disturbed a roach that ran at great speed for the cupboard disappearing into a tiny crack just as the paper smashed down. _I just don't get it; why is it that this new building has roaches and 221b didn't?_ It had always perplexed him how Sherlock could leave decaying body parts out on the kitchen table in all his bizarre experiments and yet they had no roaches. Despite the place looking like a rubbish tip with piles of paper everywhere and the detritus of various cases (_A harpoon? Why do you need to keep a harpoon, Sherlock?_), the flat at 221b had never had an infestation of insects. Now, seventeen months after he'd moved out of Baker Street, he was conducting a battle of chemical warfare against ants, roaches and silver fish.

This flat was immaculate. He kept it clean with a military precision, a sense of hygiene borne of both military and medical disciplines, and a childhood spent with a mother who judged herself by the state of her kitchen floor and bathroom sink's cleanliness. His kitchen table was clean enough to eat off without a plate, his fridge did not smell of anything but baking soda, every item in the kitchen cupboard labelled and the stock carefully examined every two months for anything out of its best before date. Yet, nothing seemed to shift the bugs.

He vacuumed, he mopped floors, he scrubbed windows clean. He disinfected bathroom tiles, the rubbish bins. He knew it was irrational, making work to fill up time that would have been spent in the old days on cases, on keeping Sherlock fed and watered enough to stop him from falling over at crime scenes. And even worse, it gave him no pleasure to look around the flat and realise that it had no soul, no life, no personality. It was as empty as his soul now. He missed the jack knife stabbed into the mantelpiece, the dregs of ash in the fireplace, the sink full of dishes that Sherlock never, ever washed up, the ring of soap scum around the bathtub after Sherlock spent yet another hour in there (_It helps me think, John_). The debris of two bachelors living side by side in comforting messiness, and having Mrs Hudson standing with her hands on her hips, tutting at them "Look at the state of this place! I'm not your housekeeper, you know." He missed it. All that had been destroyed one afternoon when he had looked up to find his friend standing on the edge of a roof.

oOo

Sherlock wedged his elbows tight against the window frame and raised the binoculars to his eyes. This was the third night of his vigil, but he did not expect there to be a fourth one. He no longer saw the state of squalor in the flat that he had been renting for the past week. If it made him wish for the comfort of Baker Street, he tried not to recognise it. If its emptiness reminded him of the absence of his one and only friend, then he tried not to notice. He attempted to ignore the scent of unwashed hair, cigarette smoke and stale sweat that characterised his worn workman's clothing- all part of the disguises that he had worn every day and night for the past seventeen months.

The roaches no longer hid from him, because he kept the lights off at night, to see better into the office block across the street. He'd laid the bait there almost a week before, leaving enough time for the plot to ripen to its full potential. He was running on nicotine, coffee and adrenaline, relying on their stimulation to keep him going while the drama unfolded.

Tonight the second largest criminal gang in Minsk would make its move against the four men that made up Moriarty's network in Belarus. The consulting criminal's people had been well chosen- the best of a criminal underclass whose sophistication had made any pretence at legitimate law enforcement incredibly difficult. The four men had bribed, blackmailed and extorted their way into positions of near impregnability, where they could advise organised criminals with impunity, creaming off a hefty percentage of the profits. Illegal trading in arms, drugs, cigarettes and currencies were a staple element of the country's GDP, the black market in people trafficking one of the growing business sectors. Above it all, the four men sat serenely protected by Moriarty's signature piece- a band of dark angels, people in high places whose discretion could be counted on to protect the work of the Irishman's local office.

It had been one of Sherlock's most challenging targets. He'd been working his way through the Irishman's network, slowly. Thirty two countries had an outpost, with anywhere between 5 and twenty "consultants". Now, seventeen months after his 'death', Sherlock was half way through his campaign of extermination.

He had refined the technique over time. His first attempts had been somewhat ham-fisted, until he realised that the best way to destroy the network was either to set one part of Moriarty's network against another, or, as here in Belarus, to get the criminal clients to rise up and strike against the consultancy and its protective angels. In the process, internecine wars between rival factions and gangs took their toll, much to the delight of law enforcement authorities all over the world. The preceding month had been Russia's turn, where the gun battles between rival gangs had filled the newspapers for weeks. Eventually, Moriarty's Moscow office had been shut down and the state authorities presented with a fat packet of intelligence about the Irishman's clients amongst the Russian Republic's criminal networks, along with a list of the dark angels within national and local government who had been protecting the criminals for years. All it took was someone with the eyes not only to see, but to observe what others had been missing for years.

As if that wasn't enough, other fat packages of intelligence arrived simultaneously on the desks of the security forces in France, the USA and Britain, detailing the operations of Russian networks in their countries. "It's Christmas!" had been Mycroft Holmes' reaction in Whitehall, a view shared in Levalloise-Perret, Paris and Langley, Virginia.

When he had set off on his campaign to protect his friends, Sherlock had not realised that it would turn into an all-out war of extermination. But the more he dug, the more he found that Moriarty had put into place a "dead man's switch"- if he died in his confrontation with the detective on the roof of St Barts, then he was going to have his revenge on everything and everyone that Sherlock valued. The snipers had been the easy part, but soon he had realised that squashing those bugs would never be enough to allow him to return from the dead. Nothing less than total destruction of the web would do.

So, as he focused the binoculars on the two men exchanging angry words in the room across the street, he ignored the roach crawling across the window sill. Some pests were simply too small to care about, when his friends' lives were at stake and therefore his future.


	19. Chapter 19: Example

**Author's Note: Thanks to RavenOak21 for the suggestion, relating to Chapter 15 of Side Lined, in which Sherlock's mother was mentioned. This gives a little more substance to her relationship with her autistic son.**

* * *

**Example ** /ik-zam-pel/

One that serves as a pattern to be imitated (a good example) or not to be imitated (a bad example)

A punishment inflicted on one to serve as a warning to others

One that is representative of all of a group or type

An instance serving as a precedent, illustration or model of a rule

* * *

"Show me which card is the angry face, Sherlock." Violet Holmes had put down four picture cards, each showing an example of a different emotion on a photo of the same man's face.

Her five year old son looked up at her with those amazing grey-green eyes. They reminded her so much of her own mother, Michelle Vernet, that sometimes when her younger son looked at her, she had to stop her own blue eyes from filling with tears. She_ would have loved you, little one; she could have loved you for your wildness, your untamed spirit, your refusal to see things the way ordinary boring people see things. _ She had adored her mad, creative, artistic mother. Totally unsuitable as the wife of a minor British aristocrat, but it had been a love match that rather scandalised the Sherringford family.

She loved it when he did that, looked up at her, really looked at her. When he did that at times it made her catch her breath for the intensity of that look, made all the more special because he didn't do it for anyone else. Except Mycroft, and she thanked God for that, for so many reasons. For both of her sons needed each other in ways that neither of them would ever really understand.

She pointed back down at the cards. It didn't work, he was still looking at her. She took her finger and put it on his nose. "Follow my finger with your eyes, Sherlock and let me show you something interesting."

She was hoping that the new drug would make a difference to her son's level of concentration. Memantine was a dopamine agonist, her husband had explained to her its neurological affects, but she wasn't a pharmaceutical chemist and most of it had gone over her head. _All I care is whether it works; we've tried so many different drugs to alleviate the worst aspects of his behaviour._ The self-harming, the high threshold of pain, the lack of understanding of physical risk leading to repeated injury- it had been a hard five years just teaching Sherlock to understand what his body was telling him, and what all that sensory data meant.

According to the latest specialist that she'd had examine him, Sherlock was doing well in terms of developing communication skills, that is, in terms of autistic children. "An example of the success of your teaching and devotion to the exercises, Mrs Holmes. They are working, I can assure you." And at the heart of it was communication. Two years ago, Sherlock just ignored almost everything that was said to him. His replies were seldom that- they almost seemed random, as if he was more involved with a conversation going on in his own head than responding to what someone might be saying to him. He almost never initiated a conversation with her, but at least he did talk to her and react, even if his response might come five minutes later, after a lot of other things had been said to him. She had learned, slowly, how to deal with the fractured timeline of his responses. And it was getting better. Mycroft said it was. Because she was with Sherlock so much, it was hard to see changes, because they were so tiny and incremental. Mycroft was now spending a lot more time at the prep school getting ready for boarding at Eton, so when he came home in the late afternoons, he would often see things differently. She appreciated that, and him, for it. And he and Sherlock talked, which was nothing short of a miracle.

She was struggling today to get Sherlock to concentrate on the cards, because he was more interested in what he had been doing before- which was lining up the crayons in perfect colour order; he'd learned the rainbow colours and now wanted everything to be ordered like it. Blue could not be next to yellow, green had to be between them; violet had to be between the red and the blue. And each crayon had to be the same length; if it wasn't, then he would spend ten minutes colouring a sheet of paper furiously just to shorten the length so it matched the others. He'd spent half the morning doing that.

_Two sons, opposite sides of the spectrum._ With Mycroft, he'd been so interested in everything, his brain like one giant sponge, that half the time she'd worried that he couldn't concentrate on things long enough. She'd had him tested for ADHD, but been relieved when the doctors said that he was fine- just learned so quickly that he was onto the next thing before most people realised he had learned what he needed to learn. "Why know more, mummy; I know enough about that, now I need to learn more about something new, something useful." That was Mycroft.

Sherlock focused everything on what he was doing- over-focused, to the point where he got seriously annoyed if you tried to get him to do something else. Just wanted to be left alone to learn everything there was to know about crayons as colours. She'd had to stop him from eating them. "But, mummy, I need to know if yellow tastes different from red; they sound different. They look different but they don't smell different. Why is that?"

"We are playing the faces cards now, Sherlock. If you do that with me, then you can get back to the crayons later."

He looked down at the cards, without any change at all in his expression. She had learned to handle that. No cheeky loving smile that Mycroft used to wheedle some treat or privilege. There was no guile in her younger son. But he needs to learn how to interpret faces, if he was to avoid upsetting people. Managing his own expressions would have to wait until he understood what they meant on other faces. Then she could teach him to mimic a facial expression, using a mirror, so he could see what he was doing, as if it occurred on someone else's face. It had been strange teaching him gestures, conditioning his muscle memory to do things consciously that other children just did without thinking.

"Which one is the angry face, Sherlock?" He was now studying the photos with his usual intense stare. "Try to identify the differences in the faces. We talked about this yesterday. Look at the mouth. Are the edges of the lips going up or down?"

At that moment, the door to her study opened, and her husband came through. Sherlock did not look up at him, and he did not look at his son.

"You need to get ready, Violet, the car will be here soon, and it will take us at least an hour to get up to London for the curtain at 8pm."

She looked down at Sherlock. "Come on Sherlock, you can do this. It doesn't need that much thinking, just find the angry face."

"I don't know why you bother, Violet. It's just a waste of time. Let the professionals sort it out, that's what they are paid to do."

Now she looked at her husband with that tired little smile he was so used to seeing. "You know he responds to me in ways that others can't replicate." But there was a strain in her voice that the little boy could not miss. He began to get anxious; why was it so hard for him to do this for mummy? He knew she wanted him to hurry.

He started to rock; it helped him concentrate on the faces.

"Really, he's just getting worse. He just looks so gormless when he does that." He huffed in annoyance, and then reached down to grasp his son's spindly shoulder. "Come on, Sherlock. Put those cards away and let your mother get ready; she has something Important to do." Violet wasn't sure if Sherlock's flinch was in response to Richard's firm voice or his touch. _Does it matter? _ She watched as the little boy wiggled free from his father's grasp, and returned to staring at the cards, flapping his hands in distress.

"Damn it, Violet. You need a break from all this mind-numbing stupidity." She sighed, and reached down to take her son's hands in hers. Softly, she asked "Now, Sherlock, what did I tell you about your hands? Can you remember the finger game? Show it to me now."

Her son obediently started moving the index finger on both hands to touch first his thumb, then the thumb to each of the other fingers in order, quickly and in synch, both right and left hands together. "I can get this, mummy, just wait a minute, please?"

Ignoring his son, he turned to his wife and hissed, "do I have to remind you how important this evening is? We are entertaining the Secretary of State for Health and his wife at the Royal Opera- we must not be late. I need you to give her a good time, and that means not spending your time telling her about this little example of genetic malfunction. Why not brag about how well Mycroft is preparing for Eton? She needs to be impressed, and we need to be seen as impressive, not pathetic." With this he glowered down at the boy, who for once looked up and saw his expression.

Sherlock looked down at the cards. He picked up the third one out of the four, and handed it to his mother. "This one, mummy; this one is the angry one."

She smiled. "How did you decide that, Sherlock. What was the clue?"

"It looks like father."

Her heart broke a little at that, as she hugged him.


	20. Chapter 20: Explore

**Author's Note: For anyone experiencing withdrawal symptoms after **_**Collateral Damage**_** and **_**Side Lines**_**, and to keep you in the mood until the sequel **_**Level Up**_** appears, here is a chapter that ended up "on the cutting room floor". In response to SailOnSilverGirl's request to cover more of the arguments between John and Sherlock as the detective slowly recovers in rehab, I offer this, which can also be read on a stand-alone basis. **

* * *

**ex·plore** /ik-splôr/

To investigate systematically; examine:

To search into or travel in for the purpose of discovery:

_Medicine_ To examine for diagnostic purposes.

* * *

As Sherlock's physical health improved, his mental state deteriorated. John kept telling himself that it was to be expected. Cocaine detoxification's principal side effects are increased anxiety, agitation and depression. It was a strange mix.

John's own depression after he returned from Afghanistan had been different. According to his therapist, his had been classical, text book stuff: listless, wanting to sleep a lot, failing to take any interest in anything, the feeling that things were hopeless. He didn't need her to tell him that; being invalided out of the army was just devastating. In one blow, he lost his profession, his career, his vocation, his friends, his purpose in life. He felt he had a right to be depressed, given the circumstances. He'd earned it the hard way, after all. The shoulder injury and the PTSD had robbed him of everything he valued, his entire sense of who he was. And, yes, it had led to 'suicidal ideation', something you hope that you only ever read about in a medical textbook

As a doctor, he'd studied depression along with other psychiatric conditions. But living through it was rather different than reading about it. John had never treated anyone professionally for the mental illness. He was a surgeon, a battlefield trauma specialist. His patients were rarely conscious by the time he went to work, and they rarely woke up before they left his care. So, psychological aspects of their injuries were not part of his world- until he became a patient.

Sherlock's depression was completely different, and John had to discover what it meant for his friend, because it was so different from his own journey. Landmarks in this strange territory of Sherlock's mind soon became apparent. Intolerant of himself and of others. Irritable, on edge, and anxious. Whereas John had wanted to curl up and sleep all day, Sherlock couldn't sleep. The psychiatrist had offered anti-depressants and things to help him sleep; Sherlock just spurned them. "I need to think, John, not to be drugged into some stupor. That's what Mycroft wants me to do, just cave in and let others decide what's best for me. Well, I'm not playing that game."

As a result, he paced. He wouldn't eat, or when John did finally manage to get something down him, it often came back up a while later. Vomiting was also par for the course for detoxing. Of course, it made Sherlock feel even more wretched and angry. He shot an accusatory look at the nurse who arrived with the next meal, and just told her to piss off. When she didn't, he unleashed his deductive talents and explained to her in no uncertain terms that she would never get a promotion until she stopped pretending that her supervisor didn't know about her bulimia. The food tray she had delivered was missing at least two items, which she had consumed (_look at the stain on the left side of her uniform collar, John). _The breath mint she'd eaten to try to disguise the scent of vomit after breakfast wasn't working. She'd be better off leaving and starting somewhere else, and looking on the internet for ideas about how to hide her eating disorder. She fled, which of course was what Sherlock had wanted in the first place. The meal went cold, untouched.

The psychiatrist had explained it to John. "As he gets physically better, he's become more belligerent and uncooperative. He won't agree to any therapy sessions, just says it's pointless twaddle. But, if he doesn't change his behaviour, then we can't let him out. It's a vicious circle. No, actually it's worse, a deepening downward spiral."

"Talk to him, John. You're the only one he is connecting with at the moment. His mood is so vicious that I can't trust him to be civil to anyone else."

"What makes you think he won't be nasty to me? I've been on the receiving end of that hostility before, and it isn't exactly pleasant."

"Then yell back. He seems to take it better from you. And a friend can get away with saying things that we professionals aren't allowed. So, feel free to let rip, if you think it will help him."

Standing outside Sherlock's room, John wondered whether he needed a chair and a bullwhip- it felt like he was about to take on a caged lion. He hoped their friendship wouldn't end up in tatters, torn by the sharp claws of Sherlock's frustration.

oOo

An hour later, Sherlock was standing with his back to him at the far side of his room; John was leaning against the hospital bed, with his arms crossed. His chin was lifted and tilted a bit to the left. He was pissed off at his friend, and not afraid to show it.

Through clenched teeth the tall brunet said, "So, you've decided to join forces with my archenemy, have you? Cosy up to the other medicos in one happy treatment team under Mycroft's thumb to determine that I'm not fit to be released?"

"Sherlock, just stop this. You KNOW that I am on your side. I'm not convinced by anyone here that you won't be able to leave here soon, and I don't buy Mycroft's argument that you are safer in here than outside. But I do know that it is too early. Your physical injuries and the pneumonia are still an issue, as are the side effects of the detox. Just be patient for a while."

"What's 'a while'? That's what Mycroft uses for his indefinite detention orders, so if you can't be more specific then I will assume you are part of the conspiracy."

"Conspiracy? Now you are giving away evidence for those who want to diagnose paranoid delusions."

Sherlock just resumed his pacing.

"Sherlock, agitation ticks another one of their boxes, so I suggest you stop."

The taller man just increased the length of his stride.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Sherlock! Stop pacing long enough to tell me what is really the matter."

Sherlock just glowered at him. "So, false imprisonment isn't sufficient cause?"

John considered. "I've seen you lie comatose on our couch for days, when there are no cases. You get bored and restless, but it usually takes almost a week before you start getting frantic. Then you find ways to distract yourself, experiments on body parts, blowing up something in the kitchen, harassing Molly in the morgue- that keeps you occupied for a while longer. So, why are you so wound up now? You've only been able to get out of bed since Tuesday. What's wrong with giving yourself a little time to recover?"

"I _need_ sensory stimulation, John. I just cannot be locked up here, going round and round in ever decreasing circles until my brain consumes itself. There is a worm in there that is just munching its way through everything in my mind palace. I open a room and it's just dust inside. Mycroft _knows_ this, and he is doing it on purpose to drive me crazy."

_He really needs to stop saying that, or a diagnosis of paranoia will be justified. _ John decided to take a different tack, a detour to see if Sherlock would focus on something else. "I thought SPD means that you need to stop stimuli? I mean, don't you need to block stuff out?"

"I can't. Doesn't work like that. There is no 'off' button. The only way I can manage all this …stuff coming in is to be able to find a thread, a reason, a point to it all. That's why cases focus me, ground me; without something to think about, I just drown in all that data. Can't control it unless I have a purpose, a reason to process and organise the information."

"Would it help if we could organise some chemistry kit, let you do some experiments?"

Sherlock snorted in derision. "Like that's ever going to happen. Glass? Chemicals? Nope- they won't trust me to use them 'appropriately'- might hurt myself, so they won't take the risk."

"They? Now you're really starting to sound paranoid."

The tall brunet turned sharply and crossed the distance between himself and John. Now up close and seriously intruding on John's personal space, he said through gritted teeth, "It isn't paranoid. Mycroft and I have disagreed, and surprise, surprise, here I am in an institution that has electronic locks on the doors, and I can't walk out. It isn't the first time; he has done it before. Is that being paranoid? No, it's being honest. If he could get away with it, he'd put me in chains and shackle me to a wall. Except these days, Big Brother does the modern equivalent- he gets doctors to prescribe anti-depressant drugs that will keep me in a stupor. And if I keep refusing to take them, then eventually, he or his minions will threaten me with restraints, a padded cell and then a strait jacket."

John stayed calm. He had to get Sherlock focussed on something, anything other than how annoyed he was at his enforced captivity. "What about some cold cases, I could try to wheedle a few out of Lestrade, and maybe bring some scientific journals; use the time to catch up on your reading?"

Sherlock fisted his hands into his hair, on either side of his head, and just screwed his eyes tightly shut. "What makes you think I can control _this_ long enough to concentrate on anything? I can't even read a newspaper at the moment without losing the plot half way through a wretched article." He moaned in frustration.

"I _need_ to get out of here. I _need_ to get back to solving cases." Sherlock was now almost quivering with barely supressed rage. "It's all bloody Mycroft's fault. He's punishing me, locking me up in here because I dared to defy his orders. He can't do that; he can't just order me about like I'm one of his employees. He dared to say that I was under house arrest and not to leave Baker Street. What bloody right does he think he has?"

"He's your brother. That gives him a right to care."

Sherlock just glared at John. "He cares about his _safety net_, John. His reservoir of spare parts. I'm part of his great contingency plan. That's why he cares. And when he threatens to lock me up because something I'm doing threatens his little plans, then I just have to escape. I won't be used like this; I can't. I'd rather die."

John's face showed his growing concern. Sherlock's face had become flushed, he was breathing rapidly. There was a fine sheen of sweat forming on his upper lip. _Classic symptoms of a panic attack._ His friend was dealing with the consequences of hormones released from his fight-or-flight reaction to his situation.

John reached up and took hold of his friend's wrists, exerting a strong firm pressure on the left one, while confirming the elevated pulse with the right hand. Sherlock looked down at him, drew in a ragged breath, but he did let go of his hair and lowered his hands. Another ragged breath. "I've got to get out of here, John." Then a sigh. "I just don't know what to do."

"One step at a time, Sherlock. Have you got a headache? Are you nauseated?"

Sherlock nodded, so John steered him back onto the bed. "Lie down, you need to let your muscles relax and get some blood back into your brain."

John made him close his eyes. "OK, I get it- you hate hospitals, because doctors don't understand what is going on with you. You want to be more in control of the situation; well, the best place to start is to be in control of yourself. But that means we need to talk, properly, without you working yourself up into a ranting frenzy. We need to explore what the options are, rationally, calmly."

Sherlock considered this for a while, but said nothing. John took that as a yes, and carried on. "Ok, deep breathing and a time out are called for. I'll be back later. When dinner is delivered, eat something. You can exercise more control if you've actually got the energy to do it. Keep refusing food, and you will just end up justifying those doctors wanting to restrain you and force feed you. So, confuse them by doing the unexpected thing. You're usually good at that, Sherlock."

oOo

John's next attempt to explore his friend's distress came later, after the day shift nurses had packed it in, and the night shift started. All the night staff really wanted was peace and quiet. Most of the patients they worked with were drugged to get them through the night with the minimum of bother. But, John had been told that while some of the food had been eaten from the dinner tray, none of the sleeping pills had been touched. He could hear Sherlock moving around in his room even before he opened the door.

"Not sleepy then?"

Sherlock had stopped in mid pace. "What part of anxiety makes _you_ sleepy?"

"What are you anxious about?"

"Well, let's see. Shall I start with the fact that while I am locked up in here, Mycroft is about to make a huge mistake, thinking he can take on Moriarty, and win. He's an idiot. That's enough to make anyone anxious. There are consequences when Mycroft is doing stupid things, not just for him and for me, but for everyone in this country and beyond. He could ruin his reputation as 'Mr Infallible' if he's not careful. Oh, and then there's the simple fact that if I don't find something else to do except walk in circles, I will most certainly do something mad, bad and dangerous."

John smiled. "You're not Oscar Wilde."

"He ended up in Reading Gaol, doing hard labour on a treadmill. I am beginning to see the similarity between our situations. Actually, I say that, but on second thought, he was the lucky one; at least he had a fair trial. Mycroft has appointed himself my judge, jury and executioner."

"Sherlock, as tedious as this is, it won't kill you."

That stopped the pacing. Sherlock's shoulders slumped a bit. "Actually, it could," he said softly. "At least, it nearly did twice before."

"What are you talking about?"

"Locking me up makes me very depressed. Feeding me a diet of anti-depressants makes me even more depressed. I am NOT NORMAL, John, and those bloody drugs do things to my brain that they don't do to other people- at least, I hope not, because there would be a lot more dead people if they did. One of the preconditions for release from Mycroft's jails is for me to agree to take these wretched meds and to stay on them after release. As soon as I get out, I stop. Two fingers to him. They don't work anyway; I just end up even more depressed. I may be out of his rehab clinics, but I am not free from his surveillance and interference. It just makes me so angry."

"The last two times I've been released by playing along with Mycroft's game, I have ended up taking an overdose of cocaine within two months after leaving. Intentionally. I'm not talking about the usual thing, the he's-clean-now-so-when-he-takes-the-dose-he-used-to-take-it-is-too-much-for-his-system-to-cope-with kind of overdose. No, I meant it. Malice of forethought, with no hesitation. Just wanted to end it all." This confession was delivered at a staccato, blistering speed.

John had to remind himself to keep breathing. _He's just admitted trying to kill himself twice. How the hell do I respond to that?_

The silence in the room just lengthened. Finally, John just said quietly, "Well, you must have been seriously off your game. The Sherlock I know would be successful if he really wanted to die. Or, was it the cry-for-help kind of overdose?"

Sherlock turned back to look John in the eye. "Neither. I was unlucky. The first time the dealer skimped on the quality, so while I thought I had taken enough to fell an ox, it had been cut with so much crap that it took longer. Long enough for someone to find me, unfortunately. The second time someone returned to the house he'd just left for an entirely unpredictable reason, so I was found. Five minutes more and I would have been successful."

The thought of not ever having the chance to meet Sherlock shook John to the core. There'd have been more than one casualty then. "Why? Why did you want to do it in the first place?"

"You don't know what it's like in here, do you?" He gestured to his own head. "You can't possibly understand what it's like to be me. And, on those two occasions, I decided that I didn't like being me anymore and I didn't want to be there for Mycroft anymore. Simple, really."

John decided. "Well, I hate to dent that sense of being the only one in the world, but… I've considered suicide, too. I've been depressed, Sherlock; you will have seen some of that the very first time we met. I'm sure you deduced that fact along with the psychosomatic limp and the drunken brother who was actually my sister. She was the reason I didn't carry through with it for the first year after I was invalided out of the army; didn't want to be yet another burden. But, the second year was worse, and somehow, I'd reached the point where I didn't really care anymore what she might think. Selfish, but then that's depression for you."

"Your Browning."

"Yes, the gun. That's why I kept it. You have no idea how many times I looked at it and wondered whether I should use it one last time."

Sherlock was watching John's face, all through the confession. "So, what stopped you from carrying it out?"

"Well, I bumped into an old friend I hadn't seen in years and he introduced me to a madman who wanted someone to share a flat. Didn't have much time to think about it after that."

John gave a small smile at his friend and was relieved to see a faint ghost of a smile appear on Sherlock's face in reply.

"It'll be different this time, Sherlock. You aren't alone anymore."

John pointed to the hospital bed. "Now try to get some sleep, which generally means getting horizontal on a bed instead of wearing a path on this floor. I need to do the same, so I'm ready for whatever these idiot doctors try to throw at us tomorrow."

There was a silence that filled the room. John thought about the various bits of his map of Sherlock that had just been filled in during their conversation. A few formerly uncharted areas, the _here be dragons_ places, now seemed a little less hazy in his mind.

Then Sherlock just said quietly, "thank you, John."

"No, I'm the one who needs to thank you, Sherlock. Good night."


	21. Chapter 21: Exile

**Ex Files**

**exile** _noun:_

a prolonged, usually enforced absence from one's home or country; banishment

a person banished or living away from his home or country; expatriate

* * *

Greg Lestrade handed Sherlock his third black coffee of the morning. A hand reached out from the pile of blankets. He sat up, as the blankets puddled around his waist. Still clutching the spare duvet around his thin shoulders with one hand, he took a sip, with his eyes still closed. Dishevelled long dark hair made him look a bit feral, but Greg considered it a step forward. When Sherlock had arrived on his doorstep late last night, soaked to the skin, shaking like a leaf, and muttering incoherently, the Detective Inspector took one look at him and told his wife that they were going to have an unexpected house guest camping overnight on their sofa.

Over her protests, he bundled the young man into the bathroom, with strict instructions. Strip off his clothes, get in the shower and warm up, before hyperthermia really set in for good and he would have no choice but to take him to the hospital. At the mention of that word, Sherlock had growled he'd rather die, but the fit of coughing that followed only alarmed Greg more. The soaking wet jeans, t shirt and hoodie had been thrown in the washing machine as his wife argued about the stupidity of doing this. She threatened, cajoled and argued, but Greg just got on with it, telling her that he had no intention of letting the young man die of the cold on the streets of London. She stormed off and told him that he could "share the fucking sofa with the cretin" if it mattered so much to him. He followed her into the bed room and rustled in the closet for every available blanket, duvet and throw he could find. He pulled a set of warm pyjamas out of his drawer. Without a word, he dragged his pillow off the bed from where Louise glared at his every move.

He'd force-fed the young man the tomato soup that he warmed up in the microwave. Every time Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, he was confronted with a spoon of soup. Every time he refused, he was told in Lestrade's best _don't mess with me; I'm bigger and tougher than you are_ command tones saying "Eat, or it's hospital!" Over the years, Greg had learned this was the warning of last resort. Nothing else seemed to work. He tried not to use it too often, but in this case, if he couldn't warm the young man up enough, it was not far from the truth.

He was woken up this morning by an angry wife who stalked through the living room with a small suitcase. Her last words to Greg were uttered through gritted teeth. "I am not overly fond of your willingness to give strays a place in our home. I'm going to my sister's for the next two days. If that …person… isn't out of this house by the time I get back, then you and I will have to have words about who is going to be leaving for good." She slammed the door on the way out, which woke up something in the lump of blankets on the sofa enough to groan.

Greg stood up and groaned himself. He was getting too old to sleep in an arm chair. His neck and shoulders hurt like hell, and his back would not straighten. "I'm going to try to get functional by taking a hot shower. If you can be bothered to move, you can fix us both a coffee."

He got out of the shower, shaved and brushed his teeth and dressed in some fresh clothes, by which time he was feeling more human. He headed to the kitchen, but neither saw not smelled evidence of any coffee. The hand he put out to pat the side of the kettle came back cold.

He walked back into the living room and looked at the pile of blankets, which had not moved an inch since he'd departed forty minutes ago. "Sherlock."

No reply.

"SHERLOCK!" This time, Lestrade thought the blankets just might have flinched.

"Don't make me try to wrestle all those blankets off you. It's time to get up, or at least tell me that you've survived the night. If I'm going to sacrifice my wife's good will for you, then you'd better tell me that you haven't died in the night so my act of generosity wasn't a total waste of time."

The blankets shifted and a tousled head peered blearily out. "I thought virtue was its own reward. You really want _me_ to say 'thank you'?" This was uttered in a rather croaky voice, as if the very thought of it was ridiculous.

Greg looked carefully. Pupils were normal and equally reactive. The face looked a little flushed, and the raspy words made him worry about chest infections. He stomped off to the bathroom and came back a moment later with a thermometer.

"Stick that in the appropriate place and keep it there until it beeps. If you don't do it, then I will consider an insertion in another portion of your anatomy where a temperature can be taken."

A thin hand emerged from a blanket and took the thermometer. Sherlock's face screwed up in displeasure as he contemplated the thermometer after what Greg had said. "Has it been sterilised?"

Greg laughed. "Yes, your lordship. You won't get infected by common folk germs. Just stuff it in the cake-hole and be quiet for a while. If that is remotely possible."

Sherlock looked sourly at Lestrade, sighed and then complied.

_He must be under the weather if he's done this without more of a fight._ Over the years, Greg had developed a sense of when Sherlock was off his game, a sort of scale of sarkiness. A few times, he'd been in such a bad way that all the bratty arrogance and intellectual superiority stuff just melted away and left a shockingly vulnerable Sherlock who just looked like he expected to be shouted at, abused or kicked out. It hurt him to see that Sherlock, and to know the depths of despair that the young man must have been driven to before that truth would leak out.

_Beep._

Greg removed the thermometer and grimaced at the reading. "Right. Two paracetemol and water coming right up. You have a low grade fever of 38.3. Let's make sure it doesn't get any worse."

He returned with the tablets and water and held them out to a glowering Sherlock. "Take them, or leave."

Sherlock sighed. But he did take them. Then he just looked away from Greg. "What?"

Lestrade was sitting in the armchair, just staring at Sherlock, who still wouldn't meet his eye.

"What?!"

The older man made a decision. "God knows, Sherlock, I've not spent a lot of the time we've known each other sticking my nose into your business, even though you can deduce almost everything about me if you wanted to. But, this one has got me stumped. Why did you turn up on my doorstep, soaking wet and sick? What's happened?"

"I got evicted three nights ago."

"Geez, Sherlock, you only moved there six weeks ago. What did you do this time to get banished?"

"It's not like the last time. No experiments in the kitchen went wrong; I swear! I wasn't high or buying drugs, either, so you can get _that_ look off your face right now. You know I'm clean. No, it turns out that the landlord doesn't like me playing the violin. I did ask before I signed the lease. Just seems he doesn't like WHEN I want to play."

"Which is in the middle of the night, no doubt." Greg took the lack of a reply as agreement. He sighed, and then asked in a weary tone, "What have you done with your stuff? Your _violin_?"

"It's in a safe place. I can't keep it with me when I am sleeping rough; it's not good to expose it to the elements and someone might nick it if I fell asleep. I keep it at a left luggage at Kings Cross Station. I can retrieve it easily when I want to busk."

Greg just looked at the young man in front of him. "There are hostels, you know. Shelters that will keep you warm and dry when the weather is doing its usual autumn forty days and forty nights of rain routine. "

"Nooooo, I can't stand those places. They drive me wild with their rules and fixations on rigid routines. Lights out, _sleeping_- when I don't want to or can't possibly. The smell of the food, the cabbage, the other people; I want to throw up the moment I cross the threshold and smell that boiled cabbage and sweaty feet scent. And, if they don't smell of that then the places just reek of disinfectant. I'd rather be on my own."

Greg just pursed his lips in disapproval. "What you'd _rather_ do, and what you might have to put up with are two different things."

Sherlock just shook his head. "It's the people. I can't stand them. The other 'residents', as they are euphemistically called, and the administrators, I honestly don't know which is worse."

Greg just sighed. "What are you going to do?"

"Once I feel better, I will busk enough to earn another deposit. The landlords _always_ refuse to return my deposit; well, not just mine, anyone like me loses their deposit, because they know we can't take them to court. It'll take me a couple of weeks. Then I might go back to Montague Street. I didn't get kicked out there; left of my own accord when Mycroft got too nosy."

Lestrade pondered the problem. "That means two weeks or more of living rough on the streets while you earn enough to pay a deposit. In this weather, that could make you seriously sick. I know your brother must live in a house that's big enough to share. I don't suppose you'd consider it, even for two weeks?"

Sherlock's eyes grew enormous. "You must be joking, Lestrade. I'd rather sleep on a bed of nails than do that again. I was forced to spend time in Mycroft's townhouse when he wouldn't leave me at school or university during the breaks. He hated it, I hated it; we hated each other. After uni, and then again when I was released the first time from Rehab, he insisted on sharing again. It was open warfare, and eventually he exiled me to a rented flat. That didn't work out either, because the insufferable git kept trying to run my life from a distance, being just as annoying with his rules as he had been when I was under the same roof with him."

His shoulders slumped forward and he blew his nose again. The pile of tissues by the sofa had grown during the night into a mound of sizable proportions.

"I will never, ever willingly do that again; rather end up in a morgue."

As if to emphasise just how horrified he was at the thought, Sherlock put his coffee cup down, and burrowed back into the blankets, disappearing from view again.

Greg sighed. "Well, playing ostrich won't help. Something has to be done, because I can't keep you here for more than another two days. You heard her; this is a very short lease, I am afraid. Let me lend you the deposit money."

The bundle of blankets just groaned. Then a muffled voice said "No, Lestrade. I am not a charity case. It wouldn't be professional. I won't accept your money- and if your wife found out about it, she'd never let you forget it. Just leave me be, Lestrade. Once I shift this cold, I will be out of your way again; I promise."

oOo

The next day, over a toasted cheese sandwich and a bowl of mushroom soup, Greg scrutinised Sherlock. The fever was down, and his nose and eyes looked less red. He was coughing less. On the mend, then. Sherlock had dressed in his newly washed and dried clothes. He was still wearing the duvet around his shoulders. Greg had offered a wooly jumper, but Sherlock refused. The DI guessed that there was something more comforting in the duvet, but Sherlock would probably dismiss that as sentiment, and give him a little mini-lecture on the TOG differentials of duck feathers compared to sheep wool.

"Sherlock, we need to have a serious discussion. Your brother obviously has money. That hand-tailored three piece suit costs enough to pay a deposit on a flat in Mayfair, let alone your sort of bedsit. That smugness is old money talking. So, rent can't actually be an issue. My guess is that you don't like the strings that come attached. Why don't you have access to some of that family money?"

"Because Mycroft has power of attorney over my financial affairs- and he uses it to try to blackmail me, to extort behaviour he wants from me. I won't do it. If the price of getting access to my money is slavery, I willingly accept exile to the streets of London than pay his price."

"How much time have you spent truly homeless?"

"Why does that matter to you?"

Greg shook his head. "Don't deflect. Just answer the question."

Sherlock gave it a moment's thought. "If you count it all together it's nearly four years, even if the longest stint has only been 8 months."

Greg was shocked. He had never realised it was so long. "What a waste!"

Sherlock looked at him oddly. "Why would you say that?"

"To be banished from home, from family, from friends- I don't know, even away from food, and warmth and shelter. It must be awful."

Sherlock looked at him puzzled. "It's nothing of the sort. Yes- it takes more effort, but food and shelter can be found. There are people who I know and respect amongst the homeless- sometimes I think that there are more there than in the so-called normal world. All in all, sleeping rough has its benefits, which often outweigh the disadvantages."

Greg looked askance.

"When I am sleeping rough, I am truly free, Lestrade. You have no idea what it means to have been _looked after_ all my life. People making decisions for me, telling me what to do, when to do what they want me to do, ordering me about, saying what I mustn't do. Family, doctors, carers- 'normal' people run their lives to a clock of conventionality. Being homeless means total freedom for me. I don't have to pretend to be someone else, live up to someone else's standards of behaviour. Best thing of all, people leave me alone. No one makes eye contact with the homeless on the streets; suits me perfectly. Once I convince other homeless people that I can defend myself, they ignore me, or interact with me on my terms. Far from being an exile from 'normal' life, in fact, it is amazingly liberating."

He wouldn't look at the DI, but he did carry on talking. "Don't think of me as an _exile_- no one has banished me. In my case, it's a voluntary expatriation- I _chose_ to leave the conventional life, in exchange for freedom."

"So what pulls you back?"

"The work, Lestrade- it's always down to the case work. Without a fixed address, cases won't come to find me and you won't work with me. And eventually, life on the streets gets boring. So, as long as there is interesting work to be done, I will put up with living more conventionally."

Greg considered that. "So, if I were to hand you now a half dozen of the oldest, coldest cases the Yard has got on its books, would you accept payment for giving us a few leads?"

Sherlock locked eyes with him for the first time since the conversation started. "Oh, God, _YES_!"

Greg smiled. "Good, that's a deal." _Welcome home, Sherlock. _


	22. Chapter 22 Exterior

**exterior** [ɪkˈstɪərɪə]

_noun_

a part, surface, or region that is on the outside

the observable outward behaviour or appearance of a person

* * *

Sherlock got up, washed, shaved and dressed with a new-found enthusiasm. Today was liberation day. He was due to leave the clinic and start his new life. And this time, unlike the previous occasion, leaving was not just a matter of escaping the restraints of clinical staff and the routines of therapy, medication and so-called 'rest' that he loathed with such a passion. He would not be rushing back to resume where he had left off. For once he was not fleeing, but rather going forward to something new that he really wanted to happen.

He'd been trapped in the limbo of rehabilitation for months. Only after Lestrade's intervention was he able to negotiate the terms of his release with Mycroft and Doctor Cohen*. With the DI's support, he'd finally got agreement that he could try to establish himself as a 'consulting detective'. He didn't want to be a 'private detective'- that had too many sleazy associations with sordid cases of domestic mishaps and marital infidelities. He'd thought long and hard about the kind of case that he wanted to work on. "Serious cases, nothing _boring_" was how he described it to Lestrade.

With only a few cold cases from New Scotland Yard to keep him busy for the past month in Rehab, he'd had plenty of time to think about what he would need to do in order to establish his reputation. And a list of requirements had been handed to Mycroft at one of their rather tense meetings.

Sherlock still did not trust his brother. After years of fraternal warfare, the two felt their way warily in this negotiated truce. Mycroft was concerned that Sherlock would fall into old habits. Sherlock was equally concerned that his brother's interference would sabotage his efforts. Conversations took place once a week for the month before his release date.

"I've prepared a budget- I have to make some up-front investments if this is going to work- so you're going to have to loosen those purse strings of yours. I need monthly rent and expenses for a one bed flat rather than a bed-sit and in a Central London neighbourhood that won't terrify clients who want to meet me there. It has to have a decent standard of furnishing, too. I need a full spec laptop, and a smart phone. I'll get a website designed. Then there's business cards, stationary, a business bank account. And, I will have to look professional, so some proper clothing."

Mycroft scanned the papers his brother had given him. "You'll need a haircut, too. You look like a sheepdog."

Sherlock smirked, "Is that jealousy talking, or are you genuinely concerned about my image?" He'd teased his brother mercilessly for years about his receding hairline and thinning hair. Luckily, Sherlock took after his mother's side of the family, whereas poor Mycroft suffered from his father's genes.

Mycroft glared at him. "It will be nice to see you in some decent clothing. I've always thought you would scrub up well, if you could be bothered. Go to New & Lingford. Put it on my account."

The younger man sniffed. "I won't go near your personal tailor, though- you still dress like someone out of a 1960s film."

"These are classics, Sherlock. They will always be above fashion. And they fit my image."

"Not mine. You won't catch me in a three piece or a tie. I'm not planning on skulking along corridors of Westminster or Whitehall."

"I'm sure New & Lingford can deal with your taste. Just don't go mad."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I just need to look the part, Mycroft. Otherwise, you know I couldn't care less about clothes."

"You are really serious about this, Sherlock? It's not just a passing fancy?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to scowl. "How many times do I have to tell you?! This matters to me. I want to do this. It's the only thing I am truly suited to do. Lestrade thinks I can do it, why don't you have any faith?"

"You know he can't pay you, Sherlock- not on a salaried basis. Maybe on one or two cases he could justify an external consulting fee, but it won't pay the bills."

Sherlock crossed his arms and glared. "Since when has that been an issue? Mother's inheritance came to me- only you've never let me have access to it. I don't need a salary any more than you do." He growled. "Face it, Mycroft, with all of father's money sitting in your bank account and investment portfolio, you'd be happy to _pay_ the British Government for the privilege of wielding all that power behind the scenes. Family money means you don't need the salary, so why can't I have an opportunity to do the same?"

"You'll keep proper accounts then?"

Sherlock snorted. "No, just like you, I'll instruct the family accountants and solicitors to do what they are paid to do, but on my account, rather than yours. I am competent to do that, Mycroft; it's just that I could never be bothered to do it before now. Didn't seem much point."

Mycroft looked at his brother, really looked. For the first time in years, no maybe even for the first time ever, Sherlock looked determined. The bored, slightly distracted air that his younger brother had projected for years seemed to have been replaced with a new steely attitude, a no-nonsense kind of exterior image. He found it hard to reconcile with the irresponsible drug addict persona that Sherlock had been cultivating for the past five years since he left university. _Maybe this time, things will be different. I hope to God that what's going on in that head of his means that the interior matches the exterior. _

As if he had heard his brother's internal monologue, Sherlock said quietly, "Appearances are not always deceiving, Mycroft. This time, things will be different, provided that you will honour your agreement and just let me get on with it."

* * *

***Author's note**- if you want to see how this intervention occurred, read _Got My Eye on You, Chapters 18 and 19_.


	23. Chapter 23: Examine

**Author's Note:** I am indebted to Ariane Devere's Live Journal transcripts of the Study in Pink; obviously, the dialogue from the episode is the property of Moffat/Gatiss and Hartwood Films, as well as the BBC. This chapter inevitably relies almost entirely on the transscript for dialogue, but I hope adds value from the insight into Mycroft's thinking. This is a kind of extract from Got My Eye on You, in that it covers the scene that Lestrade hears about from Mycroft.

* * *

**examine** [ɪgˈzæmɪn]

_vb_ _(tr)_

**1.** to look at, inspect, or scrutinize carefully or in detail; investigate medically

**2.** to test the knowledge or skill of (a candidate) by written or oral questions or by practical tests

**3.** to interrogate (a witness or accused person) formally on oath

* * *

Whenever Mycroft Holmes' personal phone number rang, it was automatically transferred to his PA if she was on duty. The caller ID would be examined to identify how it should be answered. He gave that particular number to very few people, but there were times when he would be otherwise engaged, and unable to answer- even to them. Better to have his PA respond if she thought the caller merited it, and to filter the call to find out if he actually needed to be interrupted or whether it could wait. He'd instituted the new protocol when Sherlock managed to interrupt a very important liaison meeting between MI5, MI6 and GCHQ directors with a rant about being bored. Over the years, Mycroft had tried to impress him with the importance of not crying wolf too often, if he ever expected help when he really needed it.

So when the call came from Greg Lestrade while Mycroft was in a COBRA meeting about the latest terrorist hostage plot, she fielded the call. She remembered all too well the time the DI had rung with the news that Sherlock had overdosed on cocaine and was on his way to St Thomas' Hospital. So, she picked up quickly.

"Detective Inspector, how may I help?"

"I need to talk to Mr Holmes right now." The tone of his voice wasn't panicked, so she decided it wasn't life threatening.

"Mr Holmes is in a meeting that cannot be interrupted at the moment, but I will pass on a message."

"You can tell Mr Holmes that his brother is meeting his new flatmate at Baker Street in less than an hour. I need Sherlock's help NOW. There's been another murder and I need his eyes on this crime scene without further delay. So, tell him that I intend getting Sherlock involved tonight. He can vet this guy later."

She waited until Mycroft Holmes came out of the meeting to pass the message on personally. He looked surprised momentarily, but recovered his poise almost instantly. "Thank you. I'd like you to contact the Surveillance Team and get them to identify this proposed flatmate. Dig out his background," and here he looked at her sternly, "and I do mean ALL of the possibly relevant material. As ever, I trust your discretion, but dig deeply, please."

He consulted his watch. "Then organise a meeting at one of our usual neutral territory venues- very private, please- and arrange a pick up. Do it personally, my dear. If the Detective Inspector is going to let Sherlock off the leash, I want to make sure that this flatmate is real and acceptable. I trust your judgement, so take a good look at this person yourself. I wouldn't put it past Sherlock to hire an actor to play a part, bribe a drug dealer or dress up one of his homeless people to do this. He is getting quite frantic to get back to the case work, I fear. So, financial checks, too."

"Of course, sir. Can I take it that your meeting with the Counter-Terrorism Team will be over by 8pm?"

"Yes, they do witter on, but I am sure I can make my excuses and escape by 7.30. Thank you, my dear." Given how often she changed her name to protect her real identity, he had over the years adopted the affectionate mode of address, which she knew he did not mean either patronisingly or personally. It was, as he was, logical, polite, and very sensible. He disappeared down the corridor linking the Cabinet Office Permanent Secretary's office with Number10.

oOo

By the time the Surveillance Team managed the pick-up of the proposed flatmate, she realised that the man's location in Brixton meant that he had also been at the crime scene where another Surveillance Team had eyes on Sherlock. _Interesting. Why would Sherlock involve someone he scarcely knows? _ She read the file on her lap again. _More important, why would an ex-army doctor, invalided out due to PTSD and a shoulder wound be interested in going with Sherlock to a crime scene? _She texted Mycroft, who was travelling independently to the warehouse site she'd selected. When he emerged from the Counter-Terrorism Team meeting at the Ministry of Defence, his driver handed him the file marked _Doctor John H Watson_, into which she had placed all the relevant data, including information which had been located by a quiet examination of a certain therapist's computer records.

The team managing the cameras tracked the doctor from the crime scene and eventually got him to pick up a phone. The car pulled up and the door was opened. A short blonde man climbed in, a bit awkwardly given the cane, sat himself down and looked at her, puzzled.

"Hello."

She decided to play a straight bat, and see what he would make of it. She gave him her most charming smile for a moment and then returned to her texting.

**8.04pm Target acquired. Remarkably calm.**

She realised he was watching her with a slight bemusement. Clearly not feeling threatened, the doctor asked, "What's your name, then?"

She had to think for a moment about what the day's pseudonym was. "Um…Anthea."

She decided he was no fool when his reply was to ask "Is that your real name?"

So, she answered truthfully, "No."

He looked at the rear window to see if anyone was following them. And then offered rather politely. "I'm John."

She tried to hide a smirk. "Yes, I know."

When he asked whether there was any point in asking where they were going, she told him 'no' with a smile and then returned to her texting.

**8.05 He's rather sweet. Sensible questions, but accepts no for an answer. Should be onsite in ten min.**

When the car rolled to a halt, Mycroft was standing rather theatrically lit in the headlight beams, as was the chair between him and the car. He watched as John limped forward. _The psychosomatic injury, worse than I would have predicted._ _Interesting, given the medical report_. He gestured with the tip of his umbrella to the chair.

"Have a seat, John. " Mycroft delivered this in his mild, inoffensive tone. But, the fact that he used the man's first name, without offering his own would be heard and understood, he hoped.

Mycroft examined the man. Hair cut short, but not in the last ten days, so not a homeless person roped in by Sherlock to impersonate a file had a substantial backstory, and he wondered whether Sherlock could be bothered to do as much work to fake such a thing. The man's clothes were well worn, but well cared for. Clean and ironed properly- in keeping with a military sense of projecting a good image, even on an army pension, and under financial pressure. _Could be the real thing, but being paid by Sherlock to take on a role? _

As he came to a stop a few paces from him, Mycroft continued the examination. A shade below 1.7 meters tall, so well under average height. That would be noticed in the army, in fact, commented on by his peers, no doubt, for most of the man's life. From the lofty heights of his own 1.85 meters, exactly one inch taller than his baby brother( _Thank heavens; he'd be insufferable otherwise)_, Mycroft knew that the life of a shorter man could be bound by bullying or verbal abuse, but he saw no signs of it in the quiet calm approach. Nor in the first words uttered by the man.

"You know, I've got a phone." The man was looking around the warehouse. "I mean, very clever and all that, but, uh…you could just phone me. On my phone." He was repeating the point, to make the subtext clear- he wasn't particularly impressed with the grandstanding, in fact, a trifle annoyed. Mycroft found that interesting. _Not easily impressed, not easily distressed. _

Despite clearly limping, the blonde man had walked straight past the offered chair. Mycroft decided it was time to reveal a bit.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place."

He pitched his tone of voice a little less politely this time, letting a little more steel show. As an army doctor sent home after traumatic injury and still suffering from PTSD, Watson was showing surprising resiliency in the face of pressure. _Time to remind him of his disability_.

"The leg must be hurting you. Sit down." Not quite an order, but not a polite suggestion either.

The doctor didn't miss a beat, "I don't want to." As in, you can't intimidate me, whoever you are. That piqued Mycroft. Not many men failed to react to his more overt displays of power. This one was just looking at him with curiosity.

"You don't seem very afraid."

The reply was almost instantaneous. "You don't seem very frightening."

That amused Mycroft. "Ah, yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" He gave the doctor a probing look, but there was no reply. _He can stand his ground then, and wait for me to come to him. No peremptory demands for information, no outrage at being abducted. _ He decided to turn the screw tighter and get straight to the point.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" He studied the man's face. If there was a lie, now would be when it came to the surface. If he claimed to be a friend, or have some other connection, Mycroft would know it to be lie, in light of the material in his file. Instead, what Mycroft saw was honesty.

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him…" The man looked away for a moment, then appeared surprised as if he had lost track of the time. "…yesterday."

Mycroft decided to give a more direct thrust, to see if questioning his motives might rattle him more. "So, since yesterday, you've moved in with him, and now you are solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

The question was a loaded one, and one which perpetually worried him- Sherlock could attract the attention of predators of all sorts, and his question was carefully constructed to flush out any sexual interest. He watched the man's pupil size very intently, but there was no dilation.

Instead, a counter-attack. "Who _are_ you?"

Mycroft considered. _Oh, __very__ interesting!_ Watson was attempting to turn the table, and question the motives of his interrogator.

He decided an ambiguous but slightly threatening reply was appropriate: "An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends?"

That deserved a sneering laugh. "You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having." If he was actually a doctor, then the unsaid point was now on the table- _Sherlock is not neuro-typical, and you, as a doctor, should be aware of that._

The man came back with a question that asked Mycroft bluntly, if he wasn't a friend, then what was he? A surprise counter-attack, again questioning Mycroft's motives. _You look ordinary, Doctor Watson, but you are behaving anything but ordinarily. _He decided to put Watson to the test, and answered, "An enemy."

"An enemy?" That was the first question that raised the doctor's hackles. He didn't like the idea of speaking to an enemy of Sherlock, clearly. Mycroft clarified, "In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his _arch_-enemy_._ He does love to be dramatic."

As if sharing the joke, but turning it back on Mycroft, John looked around pointedly at the warehouse. "Well, thank God, _you're_ above all that."

_Touché_. Mycroft found the doctor's sense of humour to be …interesting. But he frowned nevertheless; no need to let him know.

A mobile phone went off in the doctor's pocket. He immediately dug into his pocket and ignored Mycroft to look at an incoming text message. _And very, very cool under fire, too,_ thought Mycroft, who sarcastically commented, "I hope I'm not distracting you." Very few people ever _ignored_ Mycroft.

The short man didn't bother to look up, but the casual reply was almost instant, "Not distracting me at all" before pocketing his phone slowly.

Mycroft was left in something of a quandary. The potential flatmate had not crumpled under interrogation. He had happily accompanied his brother to a crime scene, so clearly knew something about what he would be taking on by agreeing to share a flat with his brother. Or, might he be having second thoughts? So he asked sharply,

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes."

The man's answer was not only a trifle cool, it was almost defiant, in an understated way. "I could be wrong… but I think that's none of your business."

Mycroft's retort was more threatening. "It _could_ be."

That sealed it for the doctor. "It _really_ couldn't."

Mycroft decided enough was enough. He was rather annoyed that the man seemed incapable of being intimidated. He pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket, and made a point of consulting it, even though he knew by memory every word of the file and the text messages he had received about Watson. He asked if the doctor were to move into "two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street" whether he would be willing to accept money to pass information on about his flatmate. He pointed out the fact that John was not a wealthy man, and that the information need not be anything that he would be uncomfortable in sharing, to spare any ethical concerns he might have.

The doctor did something rather unexpected. Ninety-nine people out of a hundred would have asked about the sum of money involved, even if they had no intention of taking a bribe. But the doctor just turned the tables again, and asked about why Mycroft would want to do such a thing.

He replied, "I worry about him. Constantly." In part, this was to see if the doctor would be able to hear the honesty. The blonde man didn't; he was still suspicious, so replied sarcastically, "that's nice of you."

Mycroft decided to test whether the doctor would be willing to keep their conversation confidential. "I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a …difficult relationship."

The flow of conversation was interrupted again by the flatmate's phone trilling a text alert. Once again, the man dug his phone out and gave it his undivided attention. Mycroft made a mental note to ask his PA to get a download organised so he could see what was keeping him preoccupied.

"No." The one word answer made Mycroft track back to the offer he had made of money.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

Watson put his phone away. "Don't bother."

Mycroft laughed. "You're very loyal, _very_ quickly." He was probing for a reason why this ordinary looking person would be loyal to Sherlock. Could they have some sort of relationship that had escaped the notice of his surveillance team?

The man shrugged off the implied innuendo. "No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."

Once again, Mycroft was perplexed. He examined the man again. No tells, no shifts of body language, he was projecting calm honesty. Time to shake up that complacency. He pulled the notebook out of his pocket again. _Let him know that I have access to private information about him._

He gestured to the notebook, "Trust issues, it says here."

That caught the short man's attention. His eyes narrowed. He recognised the phrase. An exploratory feint came back, "What's that?"

Mycroft pretended to consult the book again. "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?" The answer was given too quickly, and for the first time Mycroft detected not only nervousness, but also a trace of deceit in the reply.

Mycroft looked speculatively at him. "You don't seem to be the kind to make friends easily."

That pushed him into retreat. "Are we done?" The subtext was clear. He no longer wanted to continue the fencing.

Mycroft skewered him with a penetrating gaze and said softly, "You tell me."

Watson looked at him, and then turned his back on him and walked away.

Mycroft realised in that moment he was dealing with someone who would not be intimidated, but neither would he let his own curiosity put him into danger. He knew the value of a tactical retreat. But, Mycroft couldn't let him get away, so he pressed home his advantage.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him. But I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

That had the desired effect. Watson stopped, his shoulders tensing and then dropping. He did not turn back, but he shook his head a couple of times. As if he expected the comment. When he turned to face Mycroft, he let his anger show on his face.

"My what?"

Mycroft replied calmly, "show me." He nodded towards Watson's left hand, and then planted the umbrella on the floor and leaned casually on it like a man who was used to having his orders followed.

He watched as Watson shifted his weight, as if preparing for a battle. He raised his left hand, and stood still. Mycroft realised that the doctor was acknowledging the truth of what his intelligence had yielded to him, but was not going to be intimidated by its use. He was making the taller man come to him, if he wanted to actually examine the offending limb.

Mycroft strolled forward, placing his umbrella on his arm and reached for the hand. But Watson pulled it away, with a warning growl, "Don't."

Mycroft looked down at him, tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, as if to emphasise the trust issues diagnosis.

Watson realised that he was betraying possibly more than he wanted to by withdrawing, so he very reluctantly lowered his hand, holding it out flat with the palm down- a standard position for a medical examination.

Mycroft did not react like a doctor, however. He took the shorter man's hand in both of his own and looked at it closely. Broad hand, short fingers. Strength in the muscles. A surgeon's hand, despite its inelegance, remarkably capable of intricate manoeuvres. And absolutely rock steady in his grip.

"Remarkable."

The hand was snatched away and a defensive, "What is?" came shortly after.

Mycroft turned and walked a few paces away from the blonde doctor. "Most people blunder around this city, and all they see are streets, and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He turned back toward Watson again. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

The doctor would not be distracted. "What's wrong with my hand?"

Mycroft locked eyes with him. "You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." He saw the tiny nod of acknowledgment. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service." He watched as Watson's eyes narrowed, but he did not contradict the diagnosis. Again, he was surprised at the man's hidden reservoir of strength. Mycroft waited for the anger to take shape behind the eyes watching him warily. His gaze became fixed and a muscle twitched in his cheek.

Now.

"Who the _hell_ are you? How do you know that?" It came out angry, furious even, at the breach of privacy that would have been needed for Mycroft to get access to that data.

Mycroft smirked. "Fire her. She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." He watched as Watson glanced down at his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. His eyes returned to looking forward, but not at him. The military training had kicked in, and he'd got himself under control again.

That made Mycroft's smile broaden. Quietly, he said. "You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson…you _miss_ it." He leaned closer to him, willing the man's eyes to meet his own. When they did, Mycroft whispered, "Welcome back."

Then he turned away just as the doctor's phone went a third time. Mycroft grinned to himself, must be Sherlock, undoubtedly annoyed that the flatmate wasn't responding. He twirled his umbrella casually and called over his shoulder, "Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson." He carried on walking.

He heard a car door open, and his PA said cheerfully, "I'm to take you home."

There was a pause and then Mycroft heard her ask, "address?"

As he walked into the shadows that cloaked his own car from view, he heard the doctor's reply, "221b Baker Street, but I need to stop off somewhere first."

The words and the tone of voice told Mycroft all he needed to know; his brother's new flatmate had passed the examination.


	24. Chapter 24: Express

**Express **

_**Verb: **__convey (a thought or feeling) in words or by gestures and conduct_

_**Adjective: **__Definitely stated, not merely implied._

* * *

"Sherlock, you can't just assume that people will know what you want. Show me which book you want. Point to it. You have to express yourself physically, if you can't find the words to get people to understand you. We can't read your mind."

Her seven year old son appeared not to be listening. He was bent over a book he had just slammed shut. His knuckles were turning white, gripping the edges of the book so tightly. She was afraid that at any moment, he would explode and hurl the book across the room in rage. This level of frustration was becoming more common, and it was something his mother worried about. Four months ago, his developing verbal skills had stalled, and she was beginning to worry about regression. The specialist had just told her that some autistic children just "plateau" for a while before moving on, but this seemed more significant.

He'd been happy to talk "at" people he trusted: Mycroft had rolled his eyes at yet another 'lecture' only last month at Christmas when he was home from school; this one was all about the butterflies that Sherlock had found hibernating in the conservatory. She had words with Mycroft afterwards, and stressed how important it was for him to be patient with his brother.

"He needs to learn how to hold a conversation with people. That means you need to help him get over his anxiety about talking."

"But, mummy- ninety minutes? He hardly drew breath. He wasn't at all interested in what I had to say about butterflies. In the end, the only way I could get him to shut up was to get him my Field Guide to English Butterflies and Moths- which he will now devour and then spout back at me. He is turning into someone who could bore for Britain on some subjects."

She looked sternly at her elder son. "Mycroft Holmes, is Eton turning you into a rather cruel person? Is this what passes for 'cool' amongst you young people these days?"

He had the decency to look a bit embarrassed.

She continued. "I know he isn't easy. Tell me about it, young man. I am with him _all_ of the time, and when he isn't talking to me, he isn't talking – to anyone. And you know how important this is. So, find ways to get him to engage with you. You're the only other person with whom he makes a real effort."

And Violet had to admit, that was part of the problem. Mycroft was now away at boarding school, and his visits home were fleeting. As much as she and her husband missed their eldest son, she knew that there was someone who missed him even more. Sherlock had not formed an attachment to anyone other than herself and Mycroft. For a short time after Mycroft went up to Eton College, Violet wondered whether Sherlock and his father might find a way to connect. But neither wanted to even make the effort to try. If anything, missing Mycroft just made them even more tetchy around each other.

"It's like talking to the wall, Violet. I have no idea how you can put up with it. He's just so…damaged."

She had sighed at that. "You don't have the patience, do you? He is actually very bright; he just wants to do what _he_ wants to do, and won't bend to your will." _Or anyone else's_, she had to admit to herself.

On the other hand, Sherlock had taken to not entering any room that contained his father. And if Richard Holmes walked into a room where Sherlock was, the boy escaped as quickly as he could get around the tall man. The specialist had called it an 'avoidance strategy' for handling anxiety, and it was definitely preferable to the alternative, which was getting aggressive because he was frightened or upset. _Try telling that to a husband who thinks he is the centre of the universe, and everyone has to do what he says._ The past five months had been stressful for the three of them left behind; Mycroft had always played an important balancing role in the family.

Sherlock wouldn't talk to his brother on the phone. She had tried that. He just didn't get it. That confused her, as he rarely looked at people when he did talk, so she thought he would find it easier. But there was something about not being physically present that upset Sherlock, and he had thrown the phone away from him in anger after a half stuttered attempt to say something to his brother.

She looked down at the dark head of wavy hair bent over his book, holding onto it for dear life, and worried. His eyes were screwed tight, and the grip on the book had not relaxed. She was beginning to worry about him going into meltdown. _Right, time for some distraction therapy. _

She reached behind her into the bright red shopping bag with the black logo- Hamleys- and pulled out a 14 inch tall stuffed teddy bear. Not just _any_ teddy bear, this was a handmade English Merrydown bear, jointed, furred in mohair and looking as smart as could be. She sat him on the floor between her and Sherlock.

"Hello, Albert. You haven't met Sherlock yet. He's my younger son. A bit shy, doesn't like to talk much. But he's very smart. A bit like you, actually."

Sherlock had opened his eyes and was watching her through his peripheral vision. He looked straight at the bear, however. There was no expression on his face, but she could tell that he was looking, really looking at the stuffed toy.

"Why don't you introduce yourself, Sherlock?"

"Why?"

"You can do it; we've talked about this before. Just say hello, tell him your name, like you did when you met Aunt Agatha for the first time at Christmas. It's important when you meet new people."

"It's a bear, not a people."

"The word you need to use is person, not people."

"Still a stuffed toy, not …person."

"Try."

"It's not real. It can't talk, so why?"

"This bear is special. He talks, but not out loud. He talks so only you can hear it in your head. Only you. No one else can hear him. I can't- just you."

Sherlock's face showed his confusion. "I can't hear anything in my head."

"That's because you aren't listening right. You need to _imagine_ what he says. Remember, we talked about imagining things? This is what happens now. You imagine what he says, and the words will be there in your mind. You don't have to hear them to know they are there."

Sherlock thought about this. Hard. He seemed to be concentrating, so Violet continued.

"Can you imagine what he is saying right now?"

"not _saying_ anything….asking."

"Oh, he's asking a question?"

Sherlock nodded.

"What's he asking you then?"

Sherlock took his time to put the words together. "He wants to know why I am angry."

_Oh._ For a moment, Violet just stopped and breathed. This was the first time Sherlock had ever said to anyone that he was angry. That he wanted to express an emotion. And the only reason why he was doing it was because he had imagined the conversation in his head, and that the bear had said it, not him. He didn't have to say it was him feeling that way- the bear said it. For the past three years, all the experts she talked with had said that there would come a point where her son either would or would not be able to understand another person's point of view in a conversation as being distinct from his own perception of it. Abstract thinking- a key stage of psychological development, and her son had just done it. A part of her wanted to get up and dance down the hall, but she held it all in, for the sake of not frightening her son in his first tentative step toward expressing his feelings. She took another deep breath, and carried on.

"And what have you told him in your head?"

"Yes."

Not the answer she was looking for, so she tried again. "You've told him why you are angry?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because he asked."

"And if I asked?"

"It's different."

"Try describing the difference."

"With him, it's in my head. Not words….don't need to …say them out loud. That's when the words get messed up. My head goes faster than my mouth. I say things wrong, things I don't mean. You, Daddy, Mycroft...you get upset. You think I don't know, but I can see it. That makes me angry."

He looked at the stuffed toy. "He doesn't get upset. His face is always the same. He's not scary. I like that. Makes it easier." He reached for the bear- and she gave it to him.

* * *

**Author's note**: there _must_ have been a predecessor or two to the Skull! FYI: Albert is my English teddy bear, handmade in the Cotswolds. And a very clever bear indeed.


	25. Chapter 25: Exchange

**Exchange **

( /iks'CHanj)

Noun: The act of giving one thing and receiving another (esp. of the same type or value) in return, as in, an an exchange of civilities, words or views.

* * *

"No, I don't think so. Do you?" Irene Adler looked startled. She raised a hand to stop John Watson from following the sound of the text alert to where Sherlock had been hidden. Her words echoed slightly in the cavernous turbine room of the Battersea Power Station.

She locked eyes with the doctor, who stopped his forward momentum. He was now within a few feet of her, and she could see emotions chase across his face in rapid succession.

Taking advantage of his momentary halt, she continued "Well, that's something I didn't suspect. Does he often follow you around without you knowing?"

John gritted his teeth. "Well, I wouldn't know, would I? He's as good at tailing someone without them knowing as he is at evading surveillance."

She gave a tiny smile. "Yes, I knew about his ability to avoid prying eyes, but why would he take to following you?"

John gave her his poker face. "Maybe he was worried about me being kidnapped?"

She smirked. "Hmm, yes, I can see that. You could be fooled into thinking it was Mycroft Holmes's usual _modus operandi,_ but he would be able to tell the difference. And, he would have reason to want to keep you out of Moriarty's clutches."

Suspiciously, he snapped, "What would you know about that?"

"Oh, a great deal more than you can imagine. Sherlock Holmes and I have much more in common than you think, Doctor Watson- we share a common enemy in the shape of Jim Moriarty. Kate has been kidnapped and used to try to ransom that phone from me. He would fear that tactic being used on you, to extract something from him that Moriarty wants."

John could not resist. "And what do you think Moriarty wants from Sherlock?"

Irene gave him her full attention. "I don't think, I _know_. And so do you: his soul, his intelligence, his body. Moriarty is …rather possessive in the extreme, don't you think?"

John just gave a rueful laugh.

"I'm going to assume that bothers you." She was watching him, and for a moment, wondered what it was like to live with a man who could read everything about him. He obviously didn't like that level of scrutiny from her.

"Why do you care?"

"Ooh, you _are_ jealous!"

This provoked a sigh from the blond man, who was flexing his left fist, as if it had cramped. Before he could repeat that he had said earlier about them not being a couple, she interrupted.

"Don't. I'm not talking about what you two _don't_ get up to in a bedroom. That's boring, and you are right, it's none of my business. I'm talking about the fact that you are the only person of significance in his life. That brings a responsibility, John Watson. What do you intend doing with that?"

"You ask that as if the answer was any of your business."

"It is. He is. Just answer the question."

"No. Just leave him alone. Leave me alone. Go back to wherever you came from, Ms Adler. Life is complicated enough trying to deal with Sherlock, not to mention Moriarty."

She smirked. "Oh dear, I've provoked the army in you; was that a 'get-your-tanks-off-my-lawn' threat? You still don't understand that tactical alliances can be of mutual benefit."

John's patience level was exhausted, and he turned away as if leaving. She sumised that he was now thinking about Sherlock, and trying to understand what his friend would make of their conversation.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson." She didn't know why that made him falter for a split second, but he recovered and moved off in short military strides.

She continued, "If you care about his survival, then make your _real_ feelings known. He doesn't know how much or why you care. He assumes no one does. He's a bit sweet like that. But, to protect you, he's liable to do something silly if you aren't very clear with him."

He whirled around and the intensity of his anger surprised her. "I think I liked it better when you were dead, Ms Adler. Just…leave…him…alone." Then he turned again and marched off, the sound of his shoes marking a military tempo on the concrete floor.

* * *

**Author's Note**: I couldn't resist! Surely their conversation carried on after Sherlock left?! If you are interested in what happened before and after this, read my other story- _**Crossfire.**_


	26. Chapter 26: Expiate

**Expiate **/ˈekspēˌāt/

Verb- atone for (guilt or sin) Synonyms: purge, redeem

* * *

It was Christmas Eve, the time when Mycroft traditionally retreated to the country. Now sitting alone in front of a log fire in the study, he swirled the generous measure of single malt whisky and enjoyed the aromas released by the motion. He enjoyed this time of year. Quiet, surprisingly few international crises to get people excited. It gave him time to think and ponder strategic things on a more contemplative level. A bit like the truce called over the trenches in the First World War, most of the people hell bent on destruction and mayhem tended to ease up for just a few days. And those whose job it was to fight the fires their enemies liked to start could breathe a few minutes of peace. He stretched his feet a little closer to the fire.

And then his phone went off in his suit pocket. His PA knew better- and was currently in the heart of the Kent countryside with her family. Irritated at the very idea of being interrupted, he pulled it out and glanced at caller ID, and scowled- his brother. Why on earth would Sherlock be calling him on Christmas Eve? And worse, why was he calling, instead of his usual texting?

"Oh, dear Lord. We're not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?"

"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight."

There was something in the flat tone of delivery that alerted Mycroft to a subtext. He decided to probe. "We already know where she is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters."

"No, I mean you're going to find her dead."

And then he hung up, leaving Mycroft looking at his phone in annoyance. He stood and walked over to the mullioned window. That fact, if it were true, seemed to matter to Sherlock. _When did __that_ _happen_?

He put in two calls in rapid succession. There was always a core of duty staff whose discretion could be counted upon. The police reports would be closely monitored and hospital mortuaries would be contacted urgently to see if a body fitting the description could be located. He doubted that Sherlock was wrong. There was something very _definitive_ about his statement- and the fact that he did not elaborate showed more than anything else that he did not want his brother deducing anything about how her death would be felt.

Not for the first time, Mycroft regretted ever involving Sherlock in the case of Ms Irene Adler and her wretched photographs. What was supposed to be an easy assignment, one well within Sherlock's currently compromised capacities as he recovered from the stint in rehab, had turned into something much, much more. He'd given it to Sherlock because it was more in the way of a private case; the HRH element made it slightly awkward to use his own resources. Given the increased scrutiny his department was under these days, it made sense to keep this one off the radar and not in his budget reports. Yet, Mycroft could hardly turn Her Majesty's request down; some obligations ran deeper than the pockets of Whitehall mandarins and Government ministers.

He recalled the session at the Diogenes Club with Sir Thomas Weston, when the man had the gall to try to insinuate that Sherlock was seeing The Woman in a personal capacity, because he had seen them meeting at the Gilbert Scott Bar at St Pancras Hotel. Just when Mycroft had the Permanent Secretary on the back foot, he'd come back with the idea that Sherlock could be generating blackmail material to tarnish Mycroft's reputation, and urged that he should be keeping his brother on a tighter leash. _If only you knew just how damned hard that is._

To make sure that Mycroft got the point, Slider* had gone on to comment that it "Wouldn't do to get the tabloids excited about what he gets up to in his spare time." That comment alone, floating dangerously near blackmail, made sure that Mycroft was taking punitive action-. As a result, the man's name had been quietly withdrawn from the New Year's Honours List; no KMCG for Weston, and as a result, no chance _ever_ of the coveted GCMG*, despite the fact that he might have been eligible for it, given his stint as UK Ambassador to Russia. The Old Etonian would feel that loss, and know who was responsible for depriving him of it. Good, he deserved it.

Petty feuds aside, Mycroft was feeling more vulnerable himself these days. The cock-up with the CIA operation at Belgravia didn't help matters, and the plans for Bond Air were only slowly grinding forward. The fiasco with the missing MOD code had been kept from the public's attention, and most of the COBRA members were still in the dark about it- but the CIA knew. He had always thought of Elizabeth Ffoukes as an ally, so the fact that she knew was not an issue. But, even her service leaked at times. All in all, he was ending this year in a bit of an uncomfortable state. Sherlock rocking the boat could not be tolerated, when things were so unstable. And out there, taunting him with dead bodies delivered to the doorstep of MI5, was Jim Moriarty. Despite his best efforts, Mycroft was no nearer to apprehending him than he'd been six months before.

Using Irene Adler as a way of getting to the Irishman had proved a dead-end- literally, if Sherlock was to be believed about her death. He would have to try again. Find another route into the man. As he took a second sip of the whisky, his phone went again.

"Yes?"

"A body fitting your description has turned up. Fingerprints and DNA match."

He sighed. "Have the body transported to St Bartholemew's mortuary. I will view it there."

Then he made the third call of the night, to John Watson.

oOo

The doctor was in the kitchen getting Jeannette another glass of wine when his phone went off. Above the general conversation, and the sound of the Christmas carols that Mrs Hudson had put on the radio, it was hard to hear. But he recognised the caller ID, so answered.

"Hello, Mycroft."

"I assume Sherlock is not with you?"

"No, he's sulking in his bedroom. What's going on, Mycroft; why does he think Irene Adler is dead?

"I don't know, I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on that."

John looked startled. "He's not said a word about her to me, not for more than a month. But…something's spooked him."

"We are searching for a body now. If he's right, I think this will require some delicacy. I'll let you know."

oOo

Ninety minutes later Mycroft was in the mortuary, standing alongside the Pathologist, a Miss Molly Hooper. When Sherlock got into the car at Baker Street, he'd been tight-lipped and tense. Mycroft could read the body language without trying, and he decided to wait before probing what it actually meant. The drive to Smithfield was made easier by the almost total absence of traffic. In the wee hours of Christmas morning with the snow coming down, almost every living soul had somewhere else to be. He spent the journey looking at his brother, who did not return the compliment, instead focusing on the view out of the tinted window on his side of the back seat. To an outsider, there was little to reveal what the brunet was thinking. To Mycroft, there were a half dozen tells that showed the depth of his brother's agitation, from the way his thumb continuously rubbed the first knuckle on his index finger to the tight muscle in his jaw. What others might think was a relaxed slouch his brother knew was just that little bit too exaggerated to be real. He was doing it to try to mask his reactions.

_Oh, Sherlock, what have you done? Could it be possible that you actually __care__ about The Woman? Why? What could she possibly mean to you?_

He texted John.

**1.56am She IS dead. How much do you think he cares? MH**

**1.57am Offer him a cigarette. If he takes it, he cares. JW**

**1.59am Check the flat for anything 'recreational'. MH**

As the two of them walked into the morgue, Mycroft finally broke the silence. "The body was found in Belgravia- in a back alley. The only one that fitted the description. Had her brought here – your home from home." If his brother was going to be somehow unsettled by the death of The Woman, Mycroft could at least give him the comfort of familiar surroundings, and a person with whom he was used to working. Given that the fingerprints and DNA matched those on record, the identification was a mere formality. This viewing was all about his need to understand Sherlock's reaction to her death.

"You didn't need to come in, Molly." Sherlock's baritone was a quiet monotone.

Mycroft deduced some new awkwardness between the two. Especially when the Pathologist replied, "That's okay. Everyone else was busy with ... Christmas." The she gestured to the form of a body lying under a sheet on the table.

"The face is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult." She pulled the sheet down only as far as the shoulders.

Mycroft's eyebrows went up at the sight. Someone had taken a great deal of exception to the woman's face, which was no longer recognisable- high cheekbones smashed in, nose crushed- the raw bloody mess was quite shocking. "That's her, isn't it?" He needed his brother to accept the death.

Sherlock gave a quick glance, then his eyes found Molly's. "Show me the rest of her."

Grimacing, Molly walked along the side of the table, pulling the sheet back as she went. Sherlock looked along the length of the body quickly, then turned and started to walk away, as if he wanted to be anywhere else but in that room. A quiet "that's her" came over his shoulder as he fled into the corridor.

Mycroft gave a polite "Thank you, Miss Hooper" and turned quickly to follow Sherlock. The fact that his brother had made the identification based on the naked body spoke volumes. He would have to have words with his surveillance team. Sherlock's reaction suggested that he had spent time with her, time that had not been logged or observed. And that led his thoughts into dangerous territory. His brother's attitude towards the 'fairer sex' had always been remote and uninterested. But, clearly, he was willing to make an exception in the case of Irene Adler.

"Who is she? How did Sherlock recognise her from ... not her face?" Mycroft had no wish to feed her curiosity or to indulge his own with speculation. The paperwork would be forwarded so the case could be closed; Miss Hooper would know soon enough. He smiled politely at her, and then left. Through the morgue's circular window, he could see Sherlock standing at the window, watching the snow coming down.

Sherlock did not turn around. No eye contact then. _Why does this woman's death distress you?_ Mycroft closed the gap between them, reaching over his brother's shoulder with a cigarette. He said softly, "Just the one."

Sherlock's control cracked, and he snarled, "Why?" There were a multitude of questions in that one word. It could be an accusation- as in,_ why did __you_ _put me in harm's way_? Or frustration, as in _why is she dead? _Perhaps it was a complaint- as in, _if you're willing to feed a nicotine addiction, you must be admitting responsibility, so why did you let her be killed?_ As always with Sherlock, it was the silences in between the words they said to each other that carried the most meaning. The cigarette could be interpreted as a peace offering or a gesture of atonement, given to expiate Mycroft's role in setting him down the path to Adler. Mycroft knew that his brother's normal reaction would therefore be to spurn it, because accepting it would be an admission of need, a confession of his pain, or acceptance of Mycroft's regret.

But there was no hesitation. Sherlock took the cigarette.

_Damn._ Mycroft decided to lighten the mood. "Merry Christmas," knowing that of all the people he could say that to, his brother would understand the irony involved. He dug in his coat pocket to find his lighter. He realised the true extent of his brother's distress by the disjointed sentences that followed.

"Smoking indoors – isn't there one of those ... one of those law things?"

As Mycroft lit the cigarette for him, he decided to be gentle. "We're in a morgue. There's only so much damage you can do."

He watched as Sherlock inhaled deeply and then blow the smoke out again. It was the action of a man who wanted the full nicotine buzz as quickly as possible.

Mycroft had questions that needed answering. "How did you know she was dead?"

"She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up."  
He took another drag on his cigarette.

So, the phone with its payload of photos was in play. Mycroft was duty-bound to ask. "Where is this item now?"

But, before Sherlock answered, the two brothers heard the sound of crying. They glanced down the corridor at the pair of double doors at the far end. A family of three was huddled together, clearly grieving the death of someone close to them.

Perhaps it was their blatant display of emotion that provoked Sherlock's reaction. "Look at them. They all care so much." To Mycroft's ears, it came out as almost contemptuous. _He's angry with himself._

Mycroft's assessment was confirmed when Sherlock went on to ask "Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" It was oddly reassuring, and Mycroft knew exactly why Sherlock was saying it. He decided to acknowledge the fact that his brother obviously did care about the Woman by repeating something from their shared childhood. "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." He hoped the warning would be enough.

Sherlock blew out another lungful of smoke, then looked down at the cigarette in disgust. "This is low tar."

Flippantly, Mycroft retorted, "Well, you barely knew her." The criticism about his brand of cigarettes was just another part of the smokescreen his brother was erecting.

His retort provoked a huff. He watched Sherlock stride off down the hall. His question about the phone had never been answered, only deflected. Mycroft decided the phone was less of a concern than his brother's state of mind. It could wait.

Sherlock's "Merry Christmas, Mycroft" floated back up the hall. The irony was underscored, so he offered the only consolation he could. "And a Happy New Year." _Things will get better Sherlock, if I have anything to say about it._ But, first he had to make sure that Sherlock didn't plan to use his emotional turmoil as an excuse.

He pulled out his phone and hit speed dial. When Watson answered, Mycroft simply said, "He's on his way. Have you found anything?"

"No. Did he take the cigarette?"

" Yes."

"Shit." Mycroft could hear him talking to someone else in the flat. "He's coming. Ten minutes." Then he heard the voice of the landlady, "There's nothing in the bedroom."

"Looks like he's clean. We've tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"

"No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John."

"I've got plans." Mycroft stopped in his tracks. Watson's serial dating as a way of demonstrating to the world that he and Sherlock were not lovers- it was inconvenient. So, he just made it clear. "No." and ended the call.

When he got to the street outside the hospital, Mycroft realised that Sherlock had taken his car- probably spinning some credible story to the driver. He sent a text asking the driver to return once he had dropped off his brother back at Baker Street. Then he smiled. Sherlock was telling him something. If he'd wanted to buy drugs, or simply to walk off his anger, he would have spurned the car. By taking it, he was telling Mycroft that he'd be alright. Reassured, he didn't mind waiting. He'd use the time to make a few New Year's Resolutions. Top of the list- get Moriarty, before he inflicted any more damage on Sherlock.

* * *

**Author's note**: *"Slider is a nick name see _Crossfire_ for the reason why. GCMG- a UK honour, the distinguished Order of St Michael and St George. KCMG is Knight Commander of the order, GCMG is superior, Knight Grand Cross of the order. In Whitehall circles, the first is known as "Kindly Call Me God", the second is "God Calls Me God". Needless to say, Mycroft would be a GCMG.

If you want to see this scene from Sherlock's point of view revealing what he actually thought, read my story _Crossfire_, esp. _Chapter Thirty- Close Quarters_


End file.
